


A Game Of Chess

by Raspberry (LaconicTerm)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaconicTerm/pseuds/Raspberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shall we play a game?</p>
<p>A match between different domains for a single queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Drug Dealer's Offer

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the usual game of chess that most people do and know.
> 
> AND I DO OWN NOTHING.

 

Black blurred silhouettes were produced from the moonlight at the back of the stairs as the body walked itself downstairs.

 

**_Someone is here_** , listening to their exchange of voices varying from a high-pitched baritone to a monotonous one from two different lads standing across the hallowed space of the deserted room.

 

"You better make up your mind." The monotonous lad spoke. According the voice produced, he was somewhat that of the age of early forties, and based on his pitch, he is definitely a man of honor and position of power...he seemed to be used in ruling, or even giving instructions in which anyone must take in consideration... This man is someone she does not know.

 

Then the laughter from the baritone man was heard. A **_Man of humor...very odd._**

 

"What would I get from you, dear Brother?" The baritone man asked the other.

 

"Because I know what's best for you my dear brother..." The other replied...

 

The hidden figure shifted from its place and shook its head seemingly trying to get a focus of the faces in hand.

 

The high-noted man was wearing a dark grey suit, a three piece, slim cut, enough for his size, 6'1". His waistcoat was that of the same shade of his jacket, which also has lapels. His tie seemingly that of a simple yet not plain--dark blue with yellow and gold diagonals against his plain white dress shirt. His shoes were that of a polished work of art, a Gucci lace-up, this man is much of a simple guy. His shoes looked like the new ones, is it his first time to wear it? Or he doesn't really walk to use his feet?

 

On the other hand, a man, 6" leaning on railings of the balcony was wearing a dark blue Belstaff overcoat, estimation of ten inches above the heels of his black Assn. casual shoes for comfy. He was leaning back revealing his periwinkle-colored dress shirt, two buttons up opened, and a button closed with his suit jacket. This man was a curly black-headed human of pale skin, maybe that of an Irish or French descents, curls were slightly different from the higher man, who was that of having a slightly straight yet that of a thin layer visible, more of a Hanks' hair.

 

“Why would you want me to stay with her?”

 

“To keep _you close_.”

 

How could she miss the forming stubbles in both men's chins?

 

It was odd to think that both were familiar... Yes, they are both-- but the Hanks guy, didn't seemed to fit any of the circumstantial evidences offered, not even that of her time in Bart's, she has never.... Yes Bart's.

 

_"Yes, that's her."_

_“How could he possibly identify her by the body?"_

_The man shrugged, and smiled._

 

Yes. He is the Man. That Man and the other is--" Oh My Goodness, She-sh-sherlock?"

 

~~~Ω~~~

 

"SO... THAT'S WHAT YOU THINK OF ME?" She stuttered out the voices screaming from her head hoping for an acceptable answer from the icy cold stare that the person she had known and now that he’s with her, living, alive and kicking—well, he had just stayed with her, at the moment. She had wished all her life for him to _be the person who will love her for the rest of her days in the world_. Is it that hard to wish, assume, and think about a star that would never fall from its constellation? _Is he?_

 

"What do you mean Molly Hooper? Based on my hard drive—I mean my mind palace, I didn't say things such as that what were you saying." He answered her question leaving her blankly looking at him.

 

"But that’s what you actually mean, Sherlock." She whispered while a tear escaped from her chocolate colored orbs.

 

The lad was about to speak when the muse cut his gut off.

 

"And don't just pretend here that that is what you mean Sherlock. I am not just anyone of your friends who will be willing to fool around you. I heard what I heard. I may be like that, a fool friend, but I can’t and I’ll never let this pass.”

 

“Molly, you have to think. You’re being illogical, again.”

 

“I helped you and all you ever gave me was what? Me, being a dumbass, mutton-headed bird brained nesting on a top of a worthless anatomy—and I even did call myself a Doctor? Sherlock, I’m thinking.” Molly stumped her feet against the cold ground, splashed with cold air, standing before a cold man.

 

"MOLLY." Sherlock said, raising his voice, trying to manipulate her temper. _Her. Once again_.

 

"If that's what you think of me then why did you say that I counted, I hoped for your respect and love—though I knew that love won’t be reciprocated, but I knew respect would, for once. Sherlock, for once. You are a human, treat us one.”

 

“Molly, I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry Molly Hooper.”

 

“I should have known that you are just here to fool me. I should have never helped you or your brother—this is not working anymore; I don’t feel like I’m the one being in control in this flat, I was the one being controlled. Fill me jokes just to get something from me. I should have heard it that night." it was his turn to speak when a stomping of relatively large sole was produced at the back of the flat's door.

 

"Someone’s coming." She choked. Unable to suppress the embarrassment produced from the previous act of indifference, she bit her lower lip, as she tugged her sleeves to her eyes, holding back the tears.

 

Then a figure turned the knob's girdle, revealing a man higher than that of Sherlock, a much older man and a suit bearer, as she could see him.

 

"Am I missing something, my dear brother?" The man asked.

 

"No. Nothing. Mycroft, Molly and I are just talking about the...er... Morgue, right Molly?" He asked as if he is asking for a dear confirmation regarding the matter brewed and discussed.

 

"Ah yes, Mr. Holmes. And good morning, if you'll excuse me, I just need to check on my medication." She said. _Medication?_

 

Mycroft nodded, and glared daggers to Sherlock, waiting for an explanation. As soon as his brother sighed, he looked back at Molly, eagerly checking for answers.

 

_Dr. Molly Hooper. The purple lines under her eyes indicates crying, and as the change of her nose's state--slightly puffy. Her lips were cracked, indicates the loss of water from dehydration due to the previous probable reason--crying. The end of her long wool green cardigan's sleeve is slightly wobbled and damped wet that seems to be used as a towel to stop her from crying. Face. Pale, indication of not taking enough nutrition for the day, **estimation** , since yesterday afternoon. She really needs medication, aside from hydration she needed time._

 

Molly Hopper took a step back, proceeded to go inside the washroom, and locked the door from her back, sliding her body against the tub with a face down as her tears continued to slide down from her lacrimal glands.

 

"I have to praise your timing one of these days. I was about to prevent a fish from jumping out of my tank, but you came, so the possibilities shrank to 48.4% from a 62."

 

Sherlock sat down, offering the seat opposing his. Mycroft, in return, gave his signature brow.

 

"So brother, what brought you here?" Sherlock asked him.

 

"What happened, with Miss Hooper? Didn’t I tell you to—" Mycroft sat himself and his brolly on his side.

 

"Behave. My dear brother, I believe that the matter doesn't concern you." Sherlock revealed his muddy expression of annoyance.

 

"Oh yes. My apologies for sticking my nose with others businesses. However, my purpose of coming here is this." Mycroft handed him a folder and an envelope.

 

Sherlock checked the folder to see a man's profile along with some of his data researched by the CIA.

"Who's this?"

 

"Andrew Bullock, a police, who had been acquiring drugs from his sources and supplying it to his informants."

 

"What do you want me to do with him? Don't tell me you wanted me to try and use drugs again and be one of his informants?"

 

"If that's what it takes Sherlock."

 

"So what more? Aside from he's under—Lestrade...previously?" Sherlock shocked as he read the part where Gregory Lestrade’s name was written.

 

"We believe that he's currently in the possession of the plans of further reinforcement of the British Government with the French Government."

 

"And what are in those-- care to elaborate brother mine?"

 

"Nothing in particular but it’ll be a lot of fun to _ruin_ the _France_ 's state to the dearly eyes of _England_." Mycroft uttered as he stood from his seat, leaving his brolly, and walked around the flat’s living area.

 

"I have presumably elaborated the plot of my fall and that do consider the ones involved. Have I?" Sherlock asked following Mycroft’s every and each move.

 

"Sentiments, you have." Mycroft had indeed changed a bit. He had been a grown up.

 

"Think. Mycroft, I'm paying back."

 

Mycroft nodded, "You see the rainbow on the outskirt?" looking in front of an open window glaring at the heavens.

 

"Ahum, nope-- never seen it, but hopefully I'd see it soon. Very soon." Sherlock answered at his brother's query.

 

"I have seen it multiple times. Colored through perfection. And I might see it with Gaia by the night broke with the sun."

 

"Seriously, you have. So I see."

 

"Sorry?"

 

"You have plotted every bit of it--"

 

"To _keep you close_ , Sherlock."

 

"Then I had to meet a storm on my way back home?"

 

“Yes. Brother mine, you have to.” Mycroft looked at Sherlock’s replicated orbs and paused. "Yet the eyes of yours speaks a lot more different that of your medium, you never met that, at least what you think you saw was the rainbow, then things turned out to be a storm... I'd better say you're shedding inches, Sherlock." Mycroft let out a slight chuckle.

 

"And you are melting a lot, Ice Man." Sherlock stiffened, sounded annoyingly.

 

"I'll be-- but you've been." Mycroft just grin widely.

 

"So..." Molly appeared from the arch that separates the living room from the hallway of rooms and washroom. She was wearing a slacks and a blouse underneath the jumper she was wearing for the cold. Her hair was neatly clipped into her back, pony-tailed, revealing her bare neck that shone through the windows of her flat. She is indeed ready for work, indeed at the right time to cut the banter out of the brothers’ love for both.

 

Mycroft looked up from his gaze at Sherlock, meeting Molly's brown one. It was a brief eye to eye contact between them, lasted for at least 8 ticks, enough for Molly to know that Mycroft acknowledges her presence, yet too much for Mycroft to read her through her windows, who in return turned to his phone.

 

Sherlock looked at Molly's facade and then to her eyes, trying to get her attention, however, Molly was still looking at Mycroft, who is looking at his phone typing something.

 

Mycroft, on the other hand, could sense the tension building up in the oxygen and carbon dioxide that they have been exchanging. After sending his text to his PA, he coughed, to get the attention of the two.

 

"I believe Ms. Hooper--"

 

"Dr. Hooper" Sherlock corrected.

 

"Molly." She quipped back, saying as a matter-of-factly tone.

 

"That you must be going now." Checking his watch, he added--"If you'd stay here for another minute, you'll be late for at least five minutes-- therefore, I must say, you'd better be going to at least minimize it up to 3 minutes."

 

"Oh. Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

 

"Mycroft... And thank you for taking care of my brother." He said.

 

"I'm not a bloody pain in the ass." Sherlock said, tugging his lips back to his mouth.

 

"Shut up bugger." Molly and Mycroft said in unison that startled Sherlock.

 

"Oh...er...I have to go." Molly said, blushing.

 

There was a creak of a hinge and a click from the lock, indication of a busy day for Dr. Hooper and a not so long lovely and worth conversation between the brothers.

 

Once Molly had closed the door, Sherlock started speaking.

 

"10 more minutes, I suppose."

 

“And enough for her to compose herself in her locker." Mycroft sat at the seat he had left.

 

"Surely. It is. My gratitude?"

 

"This has something to do with the previous conversation we had, it has?"

 

"I assume you already know my answer, Mycroft."

 

"Yes and to top it all, brother mine, the odd's mine."

 

"What if they're already mine? I intend for you to lose at your own game."

 

"Lying. You never won, and you have lost, actually."

 

"The sun is coming up."

.

"You should start walking too Sherlock. Every information you need to know it's in there... Also, he had their captain under his thumb of morphia and heroin-- he is enough for you."

 

"And so do you Mycroft."

 

"My PA's not yet around."

 

"Why is that so?" Sherlock looked at Mycroft with a knowing smile.

 

"Maybe."

 

"However brother dear, I will not let you do that. Just because she had helped me a lot during the Moriarty confrontation that you should feel obliged to help her... And also."

 

“Also what Sherlock?"

 

“She’s mine."

 

"Mine? As clearly stated from her being... She isn't anyone's possession. No bind yet."

 

"Oh yes sure, but I'm pretty much sure she’s _my_ pathologist-- let her know that her feelings _were being reciprocated_."

 

"Why the ‘ _were’_? Past tense?" Mycroft smiled, keeping his laughter zipped.

 

Sherlock just shrugged. _Let’s play a game, Mycroft._ Knowing Mycroft knew the entire offer.

 

"I hope you don't mind having competition, you do?" Mycroft asked grinning.

 

"Of course."

 

"Then, be my guest."

 

~~~Ω~~~

 

"Ahm. Miss?"

 

"Yes?" A lady answered-- who was glued to her dearest Blackberry phone as if her life-- everyone's lives-- depended on it.

 

"Where are you taking me?" Molly asked half smiling as if the associate will tear her attention just to look up at her-- though she didn't even bother.

 

"To St. Barts."

 

"Oh. I see." Immediately, she zipped her mouth, not mentioning things but a deep silence.

 

~~~Ω~~~

 

"Dr. Hooper." Finally, the associate looked up from her phone just to snog her left scapula and slightly pinched her humerian socket.

 

"Oh. Sorry. I was just..." Molly gasped at the thought that she had slept.

 

"We're here."

 

"Oh. Yeah. Thank you, and please inform Mr. Holmes that I'm very much grateful for his help, however he shouldn't be bothered." Molly spoke unclasping the buckle of her seatbelt, and carefully hanging her bag across her neck touching her left collar.

 

"Okay Doctor Hooper, I will tell him. However, I'm afraid that you'll be late."

 

"Ahm yes. But just call me Molly."

 

"Okay Dr. Molly. I'll be going."

 

~~~Ω~~~

 

Ten minutes ago...

 

'Anthea, please escort Dr. Hooper to St. Barts. I'm afraid that she'll be late because of Sherlock and my intrusion.- MH'

 

Anthea glanced up from her phone to open her side of the door of the black Dodge armored car. Once outside, she immediately typed an affirmative, not-so-long message to her boss.

 

'Yes Sir. If you may, will I call for another car for you? In such case that you'll be out already. Or you'll be going with us?- Anthea'

 

Her phone blinked-- revealing a message from her boss.

 

'No need. I have to talk to my brother first.-MH'

 

There a creak bust open from the door, revealing Molly Hooper-- all dressed, ready for her new day-- days, ahead. A journey, I suppose.

 


	2. Overcoats and Dresses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is set four days before the first chapter...
> 
> Sherlock is in the middle of a case called the "Warhorses", Mycroft is in the middle of 3-4 and Molly is in the middle of thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second chapter...still un-betad, of course, so please forgive me.  
> In addition, Sherlock's quite mean here-- he has always been.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for those who had read the first one, and those who left kudos and comments!

"Nobody could be that clever." He stood up at the edge inching himself enough to precisely view them, the picture of his surroundings.

 

"You could." The man answered, looking at his position directly at his horizon, pressure and fear of the current situation were embodied on his sweat and voice— feeling useless.

 

Things flew out like the air, exchanging voices with slight drops of regrets and obvious sadness were heard at each phones mouthpiece...

 

"It's a trick... It's just a magic trick." The man at the pedestal said, with tinges of liquid flew freely from his eyes.

 

"No. Alright, stop it now."

 

There is no point in saying anything if he refused to take medications, _his mind is closed_..."No. Stay exactly where you are. Don't move." **_I do not want you to see this_** _._

 

"Alright." He nodded biting his lower lip. His eyebrows creased, holding his temper.

 

"Keep your eyes fixed on me." His breathing tarnished. _Let's play this._ "Will you please do this for me?" He is _charmed_. Then he turned to look at the pavement, against his pedestal, **_well-done people_**.

 

"Do what?" He asked, brows slightly touching the other.

 

"This phone call... It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?" Now that was a joke—making a suicide note, and saying it, _is such a horrible thing_. He had never imagined himself doing what suicide-divas stupid ideas, but he needed to, to keep his friend from his station and to make time for the finishing touches of the whole plan's progress and process. **_Marvelous_**.

 

"Leave a note when?" **_Dumb_**.

 

"Goodbye, John," _Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson— you will all be safe again, England._

 

And he let it fall, let himself fall, coated like an _eagle_...blew like the _wind_.

 

 

"The East Wind from Moose whose breath _blows grey mists and sends down cold rains from the Earth_." Mycroft sat, leaning on his seat looking at the grey smoke from the chimney's fire.

 

"What do you mean, Mycroft?" The young bloke stood, looking widely amazed yet curious at his brother with his cherry cravat trussed on his head.

 

"The East Wind is a terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth." Mycroft answered, settling him down from his seat at the carpet to show him the fire.

 

"I will be the East Wind... I will hunt _those unworthy people_ — I will build my own ship! That's what pirates do, right brother? Hunt down treasures and eliminate those unworthy ones?"

 

"No. Sherlock, you are not!" He finally opened his eyes to look at the pavement covered by a blue tramp balloon, ready for his weight— and closed his eyes back feeling the _East Wind_ tugging him down.

 

_“I am you. I owe you.”_

 

After a minute or so, a glass shed into pieces, making Molly tinged with shock.

 

And there he stood flawless and composed, brought his body down to pick up the pieces of the test tube from his previous loss of mind.

 

"I'm sorry." He began speaking.

 

"Oh Sherlock. Be careful. Let me do that, so you can check the samples left." Molly flushed while walking towards Sherlock, immediately put a damp cloth on the chemicals, and proceeded outside to go to the Sanitation Department to ask for cleaning materials. Waiting for a minute, she checked her wristwatch and compared it to the wall clock three inches below the roof, which both said 12:15 PM. "Oh good God. It is lunchtime. 45 minutes isn't that long." She said to herself waiting.

 

After long five minutes of waiting, she composed herself to go back to het lab to check on to Sherlock and the exposed chemicals she had left on the floor, only finding herself pacing to the canteen, her stomach grumbling and a colleague named Dr. Gloria Scott, the head of St. Bartholomew's Surgical Department who happened to be her best friend's older sister, John Scott, walking with her talking.

 

∞Ӂ∞

 

When she was in her high school, John was her classmate— seatmate, to be honest. He was a blonde, nice, and quirky guy back their time, who used to be the teacher's pet since he's the only blonde in the class— well he's an Irish, and those were the days when bullying is much more enormously applied. There were words that defined the racial differences and the educational deprivation ahead of the Scotsmen and Irishmen, that truly ached John's heart— they made him emotionally, physically and mentally aloof from his classmates and schoolmates—even his teachers, who had reviewed his performances as 'poor with no valid reasons' and mostly gave him 'failed' grades, since he couldn't brought out without hatred of the Englishmen kid's attitude, so he decided to shut himself to the world.

 

The next summer class, he met Molly Hooper, a year older than him; however, having the same educational level.

 

She was a small thin girl back then, her burgundy hair comfortably lying ponytailed on her back, and even when winds were blowing, she still made no effort to bother in arranging them— like it was glued stiffly, and her facial view is very much different, circular frames and lenses of _300s_ were clinging on her nasal bridge, for corrections. She is still softly spoken— though teeth changed from her pink eyeleted braces then a silvery white retainer to a freshly, _uncavitated_ teeth of sparkling white marbles.

 

They were waiting patiently at the line when Molly tried to speak revealing her name and her purposes, then asking his.

 

"John. Johnson Scott. Ahmm." Shyly he spoke. Then he showed his folder bearing his name:

 

                        _Johnson Abraham Dempsey Scott_

_Class 3DA—Conditional Passed—E-75%_

_Grades: Math—A+; Science—D-; Language—F…_

 

"It's okay John, even my teeth may have braces, but they won't bite. Not at least when I tried." She smiled offering her hand for a shake, an offering of friendship—withholding her respect and loyalty—that he took, and reciprocated.

 

She had been the figure of a companion, neither that of a pet such a dog, romantic one, nor that of a motherly compassionated human rather a sisterly yet friendly form of relationship they had been treasuring for quite a long time even until now, that both had different paths.

 

She had been a supportive friend, though everyone looked up to her as if she were an another version of him with either having and culturing an epidemic virus within her body or a malfunctioning machine with different types of genes that kept her talking about dissections and proper handling of scalpels and surgical blades, for all she looked like a nerd—though she is normal, for him. She had held him during his emotional break downs either that of those that familial concerns or social, that made him trust her, deleting the friend term, and replaced it as _his own sister_.

 

There was at least a time in which she told him about vertebrate anatomies and various subjects including physiology, chemistry and geology; however, none of these passionately hit John at the heart, except Mathematics—which he could do without even looking—making his English classmates drooling over his genius and mouths agape over his unnoted formulae that neither his teachers nor Molly knew, that led him to become a teacher's pet who solves mathematic equations in ranges of less than a minute up to tenth, depending on each of its complexities.

 

During the Southampton Academy's Promenade, the besties both went out as each other’s dates. He displayed his blonde locks and green orbs with his lovely black velvety coat, patterned with a khaki-colored waistcoat, above his white dress shirt and a scarlet cravat. Lower extremity wore that of the same as the coat, and a polished black squarely pointed pair of shoes tied in a formal knot. Touching his left lapel, a tulip, surrounded by smaller orchids, was clipped on one of its buttonholes, his boutonnière, merely identical with her corsage, which he had given a little earlier than the usual. Purposely, he had done that to ask her if she could do a bit of magic in everything.

 

"How do I look?" Molly asked letting him inside the living room.

 

"Pretty? Ahmm..." He looked at her intently. "Nope. That'll be an understatement." He looked up twirling his hands in the air as if looking and asking the air for an acceptable answer— then he looked back at her eyes. "You. Are. Undeniably beautiful, Molly dear." He answered earning a cute chuckle from the smaller one. Then she smiled revealing her newly furnished home— her teeth, plainly white...no braces, nor retainers, simply the person he had known for three years, simply Molly Hooper, his only friend.

 

He instantly reciprocated a genuine smile then spoke. "You. Are. Infinitely. Undefined. Neither Genetics nor Maths could explain your beauty for this night, Molly. You are inexplicable. And I know you'll turn mouths open."

 

"Oh Johnny boy! You looked like a big man now. I'm glad you asked my daughter for the prom or else she'll be picking out _the wrong guys_." Molly's father, Eddie, held out his right hand for a shake, which John accepted shyly, tugging his other hand on his nape.

 

"It's always been a pleasure for me to ask for your daughter's approval for this prom, although I honestly knew beforehand that even though I didn't, the night will end with our own pair of hands, our last dance."

 

"Good man, you are John." He said and directed his attention to Molly. “You’re beautiful Molls, now if I could speak to your escort?" And smiled.

 

"Okay dad. I'd just go get my things. And whatever you'll be talking about, make it fast—no one wants my touches be blemished or smudged." She said and walked out of the living room to her room.

 

"John."

 

"Yes sir?"

 

"Enough for formalities. You're my daughter's best friend right?"

 

"Yes. Mister?"

 

"Call me Eddie." He tapped John's shoulder.

 

"I know, calling you Eddie would be quite uncourteous or impolite, but since you had suggested it, of that could I call you Uncle Eddie?" Ed looked directly at his eyes, and then John turned his eyes down, looking at the mahogany-polished wooden floor.

 

"Sorry Sir." He added.

 

"No Johnson. Never be sorry. As much as I would like to accept your apology, however you have not done anything wrong according to _my standards_. And I'd rather accept your appeal." Eddie answered and let out a laugh.

 

"Thank you Uncle. I'd take care of your daughter. _I promise_."

 

"Very well, John. And I would like it if _you'll keep that promise forever_." John blushed at the proposal.

 

"I would. I would—want to. I'd be a pleasure. Uncle—" "Dad!" Molly shouted, revealing herself out of the door, face was added with a new wave of fluids to her eyes, making those brown orbs stood out. Eddie smiled. He wanted himself to be his _Uncle Dad_ too.

 

"Are you ready, Molls?"

 

"Yes Dad! I am!" Molly said. "Is _Mister_ Scott too?" Excitement flooded in her eyes, with sparks.

 

"Yes I am Madame Mary Hooper." He answered giving enough intensity.

 

"Good luck Kids!"

 

Molly walked down the seven-stepped stairs and proceeded directly to John. He looked at her then smiled, and said, "Shall we?" Offering his arm, which she studied and smiled at—then hooked hers on his.

 

Once they were out of the Hooper's humble abode—he looked at her whole being. Taking notice and notes of each detail in the whole fabric— **_I will cherish this moment_** , he assured.

 

Molly looked at him intently, seeking answers from his and her father's unfathomable eyes which both syncing with agreement before.

 

She was indeed looking good that night with her hair tied to bun and strands of curly-ended strands were hanging down from her earlobes. Her dress, touches the ground giving an enigmatic view of her heels that reached up to three inches, had the shade of red, a deep crimson with scarlet ruffles running from both of her armpits down her belly revealing a 'V' shaped figure at the tube. A golden molten with silver linen buckled her dress from the outside, aside from her corset, separating the slimness of her axial region, from her lower extremities that continues the ruffles with the cloth clenched to the side, leaving a curtain effect to both sides, revealing a window of white laced cloth covering the silver linen cloth as patterned underneath the sheets. As the light flashes, crimsons turned blood, then red, even more orangey red and scarlet, sightlessly revealing glitters that looked like star dusts from the heavens and wands possessed of magically inclined individuals. Yes. **_Magic_**.

 

"Molly." He stuttered while having her arm around his.

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Thank you."

 

"For what?" She stopped her tracks to the black car, looking at him, studying his features...

 

"For the magic."

 

And there he leaned down kissing her pink-blushed cheeks then whispered—" _Let me treat you_. We'll be fine." She then produced a whimper, "okay."

 

That night he had danced with her, making her the most special girl he had ever laid his eyes on—yes, this night had been a life changing experience for Johnson Scott, he had developed a small yet powerful enough to convert those sisterly compassion to a feeling of love and passion. He had fallen in love with her that he did not even notice himself talking about her unintentionally and constantly, usually with his five-year older sister—Gloria, and even with his mother, Diana. Gloria had noticed his ramblings of her name every time she asks things about his school, at first she had thought it was really a friendly one, but as the day had passed from the first time her brother and the unknown girl had met until their last year in high school, things have changed massively between the girl and her brother. When he was talking about her he had his eyes sparkling like an overly and passionately obsessed man over his lover. Even the last two summer breaks before their graduation, she had seen him looking at the empty space either of his bedroom or living room, sitting at the sofa directly facing the large windows of their split-level modern home, and once she talked it seemed that neither one of his cochlea had actually heard the sounds except for the time her mother had said he's in love—which he answered, "I'm not."

 

During the Graduation, he had asked her and Uncle Eddie if they could bring their whole family to the Scott's Home, and celebrate the new milestone that he and Molly had achieved. Eddie said that the idea suits his family well, and so after the graduation—the Hoopers had dressed and had worn outfits raffishly, and brought some fruits basket and baked sweets for the dinner they'll be sharing with the Scotts. Once they had arrived, she had let her family introduce themselves to the Scotts while she and John had left to arrange and prepare plates at the Dining Area.

 

The Hoopers sat at the living room with the Scotts, talking about the country's progress. Scotts had learned that Marie Christine Hooper nee Hedwig was married to Edward Jonathan Hooper, arranged at first but then _love could be learned_. Eddie was the team leader for the Radiological and Nuclear Science Research and Development Projects for the Hollander Government, and was constantly travelling out-of-the-country trips either to the Northern portion or Southern of Netherlands—probably the reason of the promises he had made John agree, also, of the feeling that Molly had suppressed during his daughter's Promenade—that he had granted her wish. She, Christine, is mother of the two daughters namely Molly, and Patrice, who was three years younger than the former, currently on her fourteenth age. They also had a young man named Giovann, aged 19, though he's not with them for he's currently attending a bachelor course in Physics at the University of Westminster, and residing in a dormitory at the near the Abbeys, he had extended his dearly treat and regards to his sister who'll be attending a Uni by next year.

 

Once everyone had talked and exchanged ramblings about themselves, they had proceeded to the Dining Area, and there they had continued the endless stories left to be told.

 

"Molly?" And that she was snapped out of her thoughts, clearly _she was busy_.

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

The door made up of untarnished glass framed with titanium held by a silver hinge burst open, revealing a man of noble truth and factions. There he stood, straight postured, in-depth profile, nearly bald follicles revealing strands of thin ginger curls covering his head, which are neatly arranged, according to his preference of Victorian, Georgian and Middle-aged cultures and traditions based on his three-piece suit of chocolate brown shade, a dress shirt of white and a tie of plain gray same as of the inner pocket linings leaning on his left chest. He still held close his brolly and arranged the creases hanging on the edge of the cloth.

 

"Might as well clear the creases on your forehead, brother dear?"

 

"Sherlock."

 

"Problem?" Sherlock still looking down at his microscope and sitting down his stool said.

 

"Nope. Not really. Just missing my brother?" He stood three meters away from him.

 

"Nah, Mycroft cut the chase, though I know why you are here." Sherlock took his orbit out of the eyepieces looking distinctly at the screen checking for a positive result of the sample containing a DNA sample out of a sweat.

 

Mycroft took the seat that Molly has deserted.

 

"Ten minutes, I suppose— slightly warm, probably vacated for some unimportant reasons such as things involving _towels or rugs_ and Hydrochloric acid filled test tubes or off to grab a munch, however, we could link both— since it's lunch break." Mycroft blurted out words at Sherlock in case he had not known where Molly had gone for so long.

 

"Being too garrulous, are we, brother mine?" He said clicking the mouse for four times and dragging it across several directions as if the images replicated from the DNA has been zoomed in and out.

 

"No.. Not at all. So, Sherlock how's the replication doing?" Mycroft said and curled his phalanges to a fist then relaxed it against his lap, looking at Sherlock.

 

"Mine's merely good. How about yours? I believe there is quite a big mess ahead for the government. Planned directly from the Italy, seriously— pizzas?" Sherlock mockingly said, looking at his brother's cold glaring hawk eyes.

 

"We had fully taken control over the rebels migrating from Italy, though they had tried a pizza parlor for a disguise, not worth it. Planting GPS and chips emitting drugged oxygen with sulfur and carbon, intentionally poisoning their customers affording deliveries, or worse, killing them." He explained twisting his brolly's handle spirally, scratching it's head against the tiled floor creating invisible scars used for crystal formations if the whole room would undergo a process of crystallization with benzoic acid, and kill Sherlock, having the idea, he loosen his grip to lower the friction produced. He stopped once Sherlock had spoken the words:

 

"So a milestone under your parliament?"

 

"You know I'm much capable of more things, other than—Italian Pizzas and French Fries, brother mine?"

 

"I know Mycroft... You are very _...much capable_ , but are **_your kittens_** , repaying?"

 

"Yes. _You_ are my dear brother."

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

She is now fully aware of her consciousness. She is inside the canteen, falling in line, with Dr. Gloria after her, who is talking mildly waiting for her response...from her questioning gaze.

 

"What? I'm sorry Doctor, I was about to fly to Mars." She blushed.

 

"Molly, you surely are not considering to go to the Neuroscience Department? You know they could help. You have been like that for three times—Or a Psychologist in case you've been having emotional breakdowns." The doctor tapped her shoulders and checked her pulse rate from her radial artery at the dorsal part of her hand right under her thumb while looking at her wristwatch.

 

"Doctor. I'm really okay."

 

"Are you?" She gazed up, "72 bpm, normal." With that she apologized— "Oh. I'm sorry; I just thought you're having a real heart problem."

 

"Heart problem... No... No... I'm not even _unconsciously walking and picking on people_." She blushed.

 

"N--n--no?" Gloria began laughing.

 

"Oh sorry. Glory! How are you doing?!" Molly stood looking at the Doctor who has her lab coat hanging on her left right-angled forearm.

 

"I'm good Molly— and you know what I've been doing lately... We have met this morning at the teashop... Innit? Oi Molly, seriously, are you Molly Hooper, or some doctor-alien from the UFO?" Gloria grinned at the lady in front of her, waiting for a reply at her humor.

 

"Haven't been changing a little, still likes ETs." Molly responded and chuckled a bit.

 

"And Reese's." Gloria added to Molly's words, as if she's putting out corrections.

 

"And Reese's." Molly said as an affirmation.

 

"You haven't changed a bit too Molly. You're still in love with that tall guy having visible zygomas, and those curls." Molly gasped at the words that Gloria has been uttering.

 

"No... I'm..." _Not... I think?_

 

"Molly, I know." She said then tapped Molly's left shoulder.

 

"He hasn't even changed a bit too... I know he still loves you." She added.

 

"I'm sorry?" Molly blurted, her eyes peeking out from its orbits.

 

"Molly. You know who I'm talking about."

 

"You think so?" Molly asked flabbergasted, the question still lingered through her brain.

 

"Yes. John is still all over you."

 

Molly looked at Gloria shocked, mouth agape and wide-eyed.

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

"How is John doing now?"

 

"He's doing fine though he's having a hard time coping with your tell-tale death." Mycroft answered the question with optimism.

 

"How fine is that? I'm pretty amazed if that happened to be as the silk, brother dear." Sherlock asked looking back at the next sample he had been checking.

 

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft knitted his brows looking at Sherlock from his umbrella.

 

"You're pretty much _getting dusty_. Probably try to clean your office nowadays Mycroft, it is not healthy for a bloody obese fat bloke as you are. And please stop eating Chocolates, or you'll end up getting fat _like Molly_... Four pounds, you think?" Sherlock uttered looking directly at Mycroft with one of his brows being excelsior and a smile crept into his mouth.

 

"Sherlock. I'm **_not_** getting Dr. Hooper as my distraction and I'm not being distracted by anyone in doing my job, in giving a hundred percent. And it's not four, to be exact, it's 3.64." Mycroft admitted.

 

"Really Myc? Then why are you here-- you wanted to see your goldfish. And you had simply sat down on her vacated seat, merely a point of **_affection_** , or **_admiration_** , or being **_curious_** \-- _because you worry, or you cared, Mycroft_?" Sherlock waved his hands as the words 'affection', 'admiration' and 'curious' then looked back at Mycroft, putting emphasis at the last words as he spoke them.

 

"Sherlock. Zip. That. Caring is a pointless _disadvantage_."

 

"And you know better, don't you?" Sherlock replied, looking back on the screen.

 

  **∞Ӂ∞**

 

"Look. Gloria. I. Don't. Know. He, John, is the one who left me shivering at that night beside the Opera House." Molly closed her eyes, keeping herself from crying.

 

_Molls. I can't go again. I had to go for an errand and to attend a conference. Sorry. Next time?_

_– **John**_

 

Molly read the text message from John. He had left her again, broken-- like a little kid, which her father promised her to buy a new doll from the shopping centre, yet something came up so one has to cancel the appointment leaving the other disappointed. **_You are lonely again Molly_**.

 

The next time they had planned for another date, a week after the failure. Hoping things will still work between them as lovers even though they were attending different universities having different courses—(Molly's attending the Oxford while John's doing a Physics at the University of London—)Molly still looked forward to the dinner, taking her blush on as she rub the ends of the strands along her cheeks.

 

The first date was good, though it was not a date like any posh man would offer any woman of their liking but it was a perfect date, as any starters would think things should be _placed accordingly_ , the ambiance was perfect— a dinner inside a tree house. John had brought her to the place once they were having a project during their high school days— plainly professional. The room was full of books before, but he had made it to a room full of scented candles of Jasmine and a red rug lying on the base. On it, a small glassed vase with three stalks of rose stood and two pairs of three different types of plates piled up arranged for formal dining—appetizer, main dish, dessert— and two wine glasses. It was magical, as if John had planned things to happen— fireworks and pyrotechnics floated in the air and the first kiss happened— simple and gentle, never deepened, just a chastened one yet leaving empty spaces of butterflies inside Molly's stomach making her cringe with delight and blushed furiously.

 

Now, five months later, Molly has been preparing for a major date that John had arranged for her delight. The Opera, they would be watching The Phantom of the Opera—her first time to watch a world class play formed from the idea of Gaston Leroux— just having the thought, she smiled and waited for him to pick her up.

 

_Molls, I'm afraid that I'll be late, but I shall be present. Please don't wait for me, take a cab. I miss you. XO_

_**-John**_

 

 ** _At least he promised he would be there._** She thought, she then called for a cab to go to the Opera House. She had waited for ten minutes yet no man of Johnson Abraham Dempsey Scott appeared. Five minutes after, the play had finally started, however, John has not arrived yet, five turned ten, fifteen, an hour, two and three, the play had finished and yet neither shadow nor text from John had appeared from her black blank screen... He left her again for the fifth time, _he let her slip away_.

 

He had made her think that she was alone, like the first time she had gone to her schools and university, like the first time she had attended the Anatomy Club, the first time her father left her and her mom for work abroad, like the last time she had been to their batch reunion— the second family reunion. She was all alone in her black dress. “ ** _Molly Hooper, you will be forever alone, like the day you stood in front of your father's epitaph in a marbled stone_**. **_Poor Molly, you are a nobody. Oi that’s rhyming! There once was a princess, who had been left alone by her dwarves and princes charming. So sad Molly._** ” Jim Moriarty said as he grazed upon her ears.

 

"But you **_never_** let him have the chance." Gloria said sitting down with Molly while having her hands grasp the tray containing her meal.

 

"He has all the chance." Molly answered having a bite of her buttered onion bread.

 

"Yes, he has all his chance to explain, but you'll never believe— you'll never care to hear them."

 

"Maybe. But there's no harm on trying." There was a deafening silence occur in between the air they are breathing. Once they both had finished the whole meal they had been eating, Gloria began to speak.

 

"Would you still give him the chance if he tried?"

 

"I don't think so." Molly said and straightened her seat.

 

"And there's no harm on trying. I'll tell that to him." Gloria stood in front of her.

 

"It has been a magnificent meal with you, Dr. Scott. Thank you. I'll be looking forward to the next encounters." Molly stood and let out her hand, professionally.

 

"Please do consider my offer, consider him as a gift, Molly. And you know him." She said while she shook her hands with Molly. **_This is not a business deal_**.

 

  **∞Ӂ∞**

 

"I do. I always do." Mycroft uttered.

 

Molly had started walking back to her laboratory at the East Wing, completely forgetting _about the acid being draped by a wet towel_ and Sherlock, but then, a sudden change of air flooded her senses, a dominating aroma of men's perfume— someone.

 

"Yes. And you're getting sentimental." Sherlock continued.

 

"I'm not."

 

"Why Mycroft? Out of all the people. Molly Hooper? Really? You're being a mutton-headed lad brother mine."

 

"This is not sentiment nor compassion. This is merely work. A job of keeping my people away from harm." Mycroft answered.

 

"And Molly?"

 

"Is your pathologist." Mycroft confirmed.

 

"And why waste your time over others possession?"

 

"Aside from the fact that _you're mine, brother_ , is that the England is mine, I _am the government_ —she's a freelance pathologist for the government and a resident here at Bart's. Therefore, her work is mine. I'm protecting her because she is her work."

 

"She is her work." Sherlock mocked. "Or you like her—"

 

"Work."

 

"Molly Hooper, pathologist, Oxford, thirty three years of age. Of an English decent. Parents, both Englishmen. What else? Ahh! Mental assessment, low self-esteem. She thinks she's worthless, hates to be the scene, lacks of better judgment, barely uses her common sense, very emotional in terms of everything, doctor of no back bone.  _She's dumber than what she seemed_. Never, not anyone of sane, will love her for those." Sherlock started to make a move, stood from his seat, and walked circling the whole table.

 

"You're being a kid, Sherlock. Love is not my forte. And it is a dangerous disadvantage."

 

“ _When will you,_ Mycroft?”

 

“Sherlock…”

 

"Okay. Let's play deductions. See this plush coat?" Sherlock handed him the caramel colored overcoat and said, "Check it. Prove yourself."

 

"Is this counted?" Mycroft need no answer from his baby brother and started shifting his wait to stand.

 

He started laying it in the air, flat with his hands both supporting the sleeves, and then smelled the lapels, while Sherlock's taking a new Sodium Hydroxide solution diluted and added a drop of Magnesium, and kept it on the rack. After that movement, Mycroft threw the coat back to Sherlock, settling his umbrella against at the aluminum table.

 

“Never been washed since two weeks ago, proofs from the dust. Bought at a cheap shop even though it looked elegant, anyone would have thought its cost is two hundred pounds, but the owner would not buy such as that for herself. That is a gift, proved by the inconsistency of usage and the sleeves were not even much rubbed against anything, an indication of its proper importance. Also, she had used a different type of perfume than that of what she had been using underneath, a mixture of an Elizabeth Arden and Ralph Lauren, creating a boyish aroma, probably to disguise the gender of the owner. Your turn."

 

Sherlock had started speaking his own language of deductions...

 

"Bought two to three months ago by a man, yes from a man, and the condition suggests that it hasn't been brought out of England." Sherlock said.

 

"I would like to make a correction, brother. That coat has been bought a year or so, probably the last time she had been with her family for the Christmas season, where more plushy clothes were being sold, and where sales go up high. And yes indeed, it was a gift from a man, a caramel color suggests of a man's taste that he wanted to project to his lady friend, however, the inscriptions of designs were merely an indication of a female who had actually made to a point in choosing this. Men are relatively not a good judge in terms of design and _creativity—more on logic_. That they lack of knowledge about the lady's type of imagination."

 

"Well, unless the man who gave it to her was a gay friend."

 

"Yes. Sherlock. However, there ain't no gay who'd prefer giving his friend a coat of that, a woman kind of fashion? No. Sherlock."

 

"That is a good point, Mycroft from _a friend_." _Rings a bell._

 

"Yes. Her **_ex_** -boyfriend's mother. Probability says it is a gift for forgiveness, caramels makes people relaxed. And it is a gift package from Southampton. Sherlock check the inside pockets and the silk cloth." Mycroft instructed him to do it, which he had fixed.

 

"Smelled like the red wine from Palermo. It has been to the Rome."

 

"Yes a type of wine induced the smell, it has been washed, though the aroma of the coffee, and licorice and a type of grape called Perricone that suggests a Sclafani red wine from Sicily, was still there."

 

"She had been to a conference last week, in Rome— thus, the coat hasn't been washed, probably to preserve the memories. How dunce she is?" Sherlock had muffled.

 

"Great. Now turn the pocket, you might see something."

 

"From John." Sherlock whispered, and a wide-eyed gaze baffled his senses.

 

"John. Watson." Words left his mouth and his eyes closed.

 

"Mycroft, the DNA samples and sequences were finished— a hundred percent done, and match." Sherlock changed his face and tone to a steel one.

 

"Okay. I'll arrange up a flight tomorrow."

 

"No. I want to get this done today. Tonight will be the best. And it's better if you go now. Be a man Mycroft."

 

"And so do you, Sherlock."

 

"I was."

 

Sir Isaac Newton had once been sitting under an apple tree that made him happen to think that of the gravity constant. Galileo's theory also suggest that of anything that repels the gravity for a period of time must go down— given that of his experiment at the top of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and the metal ball against the wooden one, that concluded to the point of Physics and History that gravity, weight, and distance affect the speed of a given object at a given time.

 

And there Sherlock had his head leaning on the pavement with blood spluttering from his vessels and his left ulnar artery void from its beating.

 

He was once Sherlock Holmes, a detective, a man of honor, lying dead in front of people and John. Watson. Everything must fall somehow. Once. Twice.

 

"I think I'm dying."

 

"Please don't be dead. For me."

 

Those words are, "From John."

 

“This is all a trick…a magic trick. Because I do _owe you_ something too.”


	3. The Daughter Of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All along, she had been so predictable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO OWN NOTHING.  
> Even Gloria Scott.
> 
> Gatiss, Moffat, Vertue, and Doyle do own the main characters used in the story.
> 
> Also the following: (I'm not even related, by any means)  
> Wikipedia- Wikimedia Foundation (Jimmy Wales)  
> Bing- Microsoft  
> Yahoo- Jerry Yang and David Filo  
> Google- Larry Page and Sergey Brin  
> Daddy Long Legs- Jean Webster  
> Glee- Ryan Murphy, Brad Falchuk, Ian Brennan and Fox  
> The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz- L. Frank Baum  
> The Twelfth Night- William Shakespeare  
> Men In Black- MARVEL  
> **Song's originally from Elvis Presley, but I used Ingrid Michaelson's cover.
> 
> And those addresses used aren't my domain. I never lived, not there or in any places, don't hunt me down.  
> :))))))
> 
> Also, I would like to commend each fiction writers, of all fandoms! 
> 
> Thank you!  
> Kindly click the 'Kudos' or the 'Comments' tabs, let me know who are appreciating this work. (It's shameless, innit?)

White walls and cold tiled floor stood in front of her as she stopped from her tracks then looked around and believed that something is quite different. _Very different from her senses. Foreign aroma._

 

She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent... A man's dominating scent, making every condition that currently occurs in her inside deteriorated.

 

Honestly, she had missed John very much, even though he had left her hanging and waiting for his caresses during and before their dates, she could never miss the fact that she loved him, _as a best friend_ , _as a brother_ , and once _a lover—_ and the thought of bringing herself back to the Scott's front door makes herself wanting to **_puke_**. Vomit it out, **_all_** , the memories, the words they had exchanged, the letters she had read, the messages she had received, the gifts he had sent, she wanted to excrete them all, let them all out, out of her circulation, all because of a mistake— or mistakes that scarred her principles all throughout.

 

**_"Wise men say... Only fools rush in."_ **

 

Her father used to sing that song every night when he was around, while he did not have any commitments written on his schedule for work. He had once taught her how to play the piano, when she was in her elementary schooling days.

 

That day was her PTA meeting— where teachers and parents would and supposedly meet to explain the school's missions and visions and where school plans needed to be assessed. That would be a main goal for Molly, make someone attend. Never once in her whole life her parents had attended her PTA meetings or visited her school except for graduations when her mother is usually present with her brother and younger sister; no dad, no shadow from a man she had called dad, who had participated during her conception inside her mother's womb— maybe she had lived with a family picture of four persons present, and a 1x1 identification card picture pasted above it, clinging on to the frame.

 

She had once taught herself getting into a disciplinary action; get herself to meet the prestigious official of the school, or even the guidance officer, maybe that would be the _only key_ that one of her parents would get involved in her doings—wrong doing.

 

 ** _No. That's too bad._** She knew that a simple action of disobedience would take a large part of her future—she wanted to have a good class record; a good standing in which her would knew her. Probably that would make _them_ recognize her.

 

She was so young those days; she did not know that her parents were busy. Her mother was a nuclear radiologist and her father, whom she hadn't even met once, but she knew that she had a father, at least she still saw her mother sitting in front of a typewriter, 'typing notes for someone, _maybe a pen pal, or work'?_ _No. **Should you share the current events that are happening to your daughters and son to a pen pal?**_

 

 

_Relax. Everything is going to be fine. Our daughter, Patrice, will be entering the primary school. She looked so excited. Molly was planning to join the Anatomy Club, and she cannot wait to see those carcasses and the process of rat dissection and those frogs. Our son, Gio, was planning where he should go for college. I told him it was too early to plan and he should focus on his current studies—but the man would never listen to Mommy._

_When will you be flying back Eddie? It has been nearly a decade since you visited the kids and Gio was the only one who saw you. Molly has been acting weird lately, not to alarm you, but she was showing the first signs of having an anti-social behavior. She kept on asking me about you— but I can't answer, even I, am still busy. Moreover, I know you are busy, but let your kids know that you are still alive. Please. You know that I cannot do this alone. We miss and love you, always remember that._

 

- ** _Christie_**

 

The next letter was a reply from an address so foreign to her.

 

_November 6, 1993_

_13C Phi Camp, Herengracht_

_Amsterdam, Netherlands_

_Marie Christine Hooper_

_18 Blenheim Avenue, Southampton_

_United Kingdom_

_Dearest Christie:_

_Don't you fret my love. I may be a million meters and a sea away from you and our children, but all the minutes and seconds, whenever I am allowed, I always think of you._

_I believe that Patrice is having her birthday this month; however, I could not go anywhere but here. I know it has been a decade or so since the last time I have seen the kids, and seven years since we have seen each other and forgive my job and me for that. I am sorry for everything that I have caused you and our kids, but please stay with me. It will not be long though, I promise. There would be a time when there is not a thing that kept us away, there would be no walls to frame—and that time will be soon. I will be finishing this project as fast as I can, so I will be back there on or before New Year’s Eve and... Probably stay there for years? Sounds great, right?_

_I miss you all. Keep smiling for me._

_Yours,_

_Edward Hooper_

 

Molly had started to read the mid-part of the letters, and all that registered on her brain was _'Eddie'_ , another _'Eddie'_ and an _Edward_ whom holds them and recognize them as **_'our kids'_**. Quite a possession, by the use of **Our** — _not a pen pal yet their father_ , the thought of it made her smile. **_I have a dad. A true one!_** Not like some boring teen books like the one entitled, _Daddy Long Legs_ , where Judy had to fake his identity, her sponsor's identity in to some of fatherly nature, **_mainly the common problem for teens to get themselves a part of belongingness to a group or society_**. However, that is the point—of sneaking around, reading letters from Mommy's typewriters that are supposed to be private and _addressed to—Netherlands? Really?_

 

"Moms and Dads are supposedly staying at the same house...and a same room, don't _they_?" She had asked Giovann, her brother.

 

"Yes Molls, why is there a problem?"

 

"If so then, Mommy and Daddy were not married, no point of calling them Moms and Dads… They aren't living together, not taking the _same bed,_ the _same clothes_..."

 

" _Clothes_? Molly! Oh dear Lord of the heavens. Guys don't use girly clothes and so as girls. When did you even had _that idea_ , you brat? I'll tell Mommy." Giovann had rushed to the kitchen looking for their mother...

 

"Giovann! Mommy's gone— she's off to the lab... Forget about it, Andres, my classmate had _slipped one of his tongue twisters to the class_ —I just thought." Molly shouted, luring for her brother to go back to her presence.

 

"Look Molly, whatever you have read, heard or thought of Mommy and Daddy's relationship, they are still our parents and I'm sure dad will be back. They could explain." He assured her, crouching to her sides and looking to her eyes.

 

"Yes. Brother. Thank you. _But what is he looked like_?"

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

"Excuse me!" It was Christmas eve when someone had knocked on their abode's door, Mom had to go out and check who that person is, of course, she's the oldest, but Giovann started to grip the seat handles when five minutes have passed and their mother have not returned yet.

 

The tension was felt, Giovann stood looking over Molly and said—"Keep Patrice, Molls, in case I didn't return within five minutes, please _take over, hide at your rooms and lock the door. And pray._ " In return, Molly nodded and bit her lip.

 

 _One minute. Two. And Three_.

 

"Surprise!" Molly and Patrice took three steps at her back and tried to run...

 

"No Molly, Patrice stop _. I'm Daddy_. Here's Daddy."

 

Patrice rushed up boggling to her father and hugged him tightly yet Molly stood, unbelievably shocked...'Hey Molly you have waited for him. You wished for a father and you're getting him for Christmas, weren't you happy?' She had studied the whole face and features of the man hugging Patrice. Dark auburn hair, clean cut, making him look more of a businessperson and less than of a researcher who has been out of the country for years. Stubbles were formed on his lapels and slight to his chin, while his moustache was very visible to the naked eye, covering his upper lips from the public. Sharp stares that leave daggers cutting the edge of each vertebra sending chills through it were directly being stabbed upon her face, her eyes—Molly could no longer stand with her own, without her brother, sister and mother, each of her resistance had gone wrong, emotions overcame her head. From that, she ran to her father and hugged him tightly, tucking her down to his chin while he lift her up from the cold shrilling bare floor— ** _surely she is happy_**.

 

"Happy Christmas Sweeties." Those first words she kept to her memory as her father's voice lulled her to a new lala land of facts where she had learned to trust others with their promises...

 

Three breaks and vacations had passed and it seemed like her father was staying home for good until there came a call from an unknown number, looking for his father.

 

The lad of dignity had talked with confidence with the man from the telephone. She had heard shuffles of voices, probably out of the crowd, or a place that involves many people having different conversations, then her father let his right hand with the handset fall back its weight against its body, draping his other hand against the cold sweat rushing down from his follicles. The next scene she had witnessed was her mother sitting at the sofa right next to her father, conversing things that neither her ears nor head could translate and understand. Her mother turned anemic as the blood drained from her face, her brown eyes never shone through the light, she had refused to speak to the kids that night, all she did was to lock herself up within their room's corners, out of emotions reach, away from them.

 

Giovann, Molly and Patrice did not know what happened to their mother until the next morning their father had walked to their rooms and brought them to the master's bedroom when their parents were staying. They saw her mother's eyes bloodshot from furious crying and her back against the headrest of the queen-sized bed, which used to be their shared room when their father is not around.

 

Christine patted the spaces next to her, a gesture for them to occupy the vacancy. Once the kids had settled, Eddie had followed suit, leaving the children sandwiched between their two bodies pressed against the comfortable yet hard situation, but a match needs to ignite the fire... Therefore, Christine talked first.

 

"Giovann. You're the oldest; I believe you do know what's happening."  She said as she leaned her head sideways towards her son's shoulder.

 

"I don't understand you, Mom _. Never had_."

 

"Son, girls, please listen. I needed to go back to the Netherlands. _Dad is needed to be back… to work_. They needed me." Eddie started speaking, capturing the attention of the listeners. He paused and said, "And _so as your Mom_."

 

"But Dad. I thought that we would live together—   _all of us_... Under one roof. _Why?_ What happened?" Molly asked her father, drips of tears started to fall.

 

"Molls. You know how much I wanted to stay with you guys, but I can't, we can’t. If I could bring you to Netherlands, I would… but I cannot. You have your education here. You, Giovann, I know how much you wanted to go to college, _you are very much excited_. I could see your _eyes,_ full of high hopes. I know that once, I _killed_ that dream, that hope, you might never forgive me."

 

"You, Patrice. You are so young; it is difficult for you to adjust. Migration is not a common thing to do, that once you have thought of it, you will just do it, obtain it... _There ain't no fast lane_." Patrice squeezed her father's hands, and turned to nod.

 

"Molly. Do not worry baby. Daddy will always be with you, remember the time when I sing you to sleep. _Remember that song_? If you missed me, just sing it...and I will be there with you. I promise you, I’ll be back _for good_." She was optimistic for that promise. She was optimistic for her father. For once, she had taught herself to love a man whom she could call father, then the next scene he would be pulled back to the dangers, leaving only her and the family for a _frail country?_

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

Three days later, Eddie and Christie had started loading their baggage with clothes and several pictures arranged and zipped inside a small compact bag together with their personal belongings. They had started bidding goodbyes with the kids, days ago, yet they receive neither a smile nor a nod of greeting each time their paths cross in their little domicile. A week after, the menage had lived their lives accordingly to what they wanted. Giovann, himself, played the part of a young father of two filles, who had grown fondly of him. On the other hand, Patrice had never been firm before, but all she was a young girl, a sweet one—and now, a ruthless weapon. She had refused to work with her friends during classes and considered herself as a bully. Molly was now back to her anti-social nerd act wandering around the school library's corridors and staying up for extensions at the Anatomy Club, reading books about vessel surgeries, cloacal functions and heart's valves and regions.

 

Another week had passed, and they had been a total wreck. Responsibility could not take over itself to cooperate with Giovann, even if he is after the betterment of those girls; the wind had founded a wall between them. Dusty entertainment and dining areas, fully packed mailbox stood outside their domain; luckily, monthly bills were settled beforehand and they are still financial supported, or else— there will not be any wreckage but ruins. **_Mommy will not like this._**

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

 ** _Last Mondays of each periods suck_**. Molly had always thought of that thing. To be honest, she had never liked that date—  PTA meetings where her classmates will bring their parents and for some reasons she hated to take each scene developing inside her head. Those brat kids will simply pick on her calling her _unparented_ , _parentless_ or worse, _alien_ then laugh at her horridly, by just thinking about how horrendous that would be, she had developed a migraine giving her composure a ruffle. However, February 27, 1995, was not as bad as what she had thought what her _monochromatic fishbowl_ had formulated and imagined things would be was too far from any possibilities.

 

"Parents, I would like you to recognize this young girl from my class, **Mary Hooper**." Her lady instructor had pronounced her name sensibly, snaring glares through her classmates wistful stares. **_What the bloody hell?_**

 

"Let us please congratulate her for receiving this exemplary award in Biological Sciences granted by the Academe for her exceptional wit concerning the subject." She turned her head to Molly, far from the microphone and said, gracefully, "Please accept this medal, certificate and this congratulatory letter from the Academe. We praise you, and I am proud of you. Also, I strongly recommend for you to _check the letter first_."

 

Molly had been happy to see the expressions engraved at her classmates’ faces and the recognition yet her face showed shades of sorrow. **_None of my parents had seen it_**. And she felt alone, fighting the urge to let herself burst into tears, she had ran towards the music room and locked herself within the closed doors, fortunately, she had no companion. She had slid herself to sit; her back flat against the figures engraved on the door, and started humming the part, which her father used to sing.

 

**_Wise men say... Only fools rush in. But I can't help falling in love with you._ **

 

"Shall I stay? Would it be a sin? If I can't help falling in love with you."

 

Then a piano started rolling its notes through her eardrums. **_I thought I was alone_**. She had stopped her tracks and tried to walk with her knees towards the grand piano to check the presence she had not sensed before.

 

"Why did you stop?"

 

A young man stood erect from the stool, leaning himself against the keys, the awful sustained sound made Molly shoot herself up from the previous crawling position that she had been and her every eyes of brown widely exposed to the man in front of her. _A man— too young to be one of the parents, wearing a coat and tie. **Oh no! How could she be so careless?**_

 

"I'm sorry sir! If you will be having your class… I can go out." She said biting her lips awkwardly.

 

"No. Please continue making melodious sound. _Continue singing_."

 

"Oh-okay?"

 

The man had started plucking his hands against the keys creating strokes of various forms of sound that were being heard in the completely soundproofed music room.

 

"Like a river flows, surely to the sea. Darling so it goes." She paused clearing her windpipe to fill another tank of gas. "Some things are meant to be."

 

Another pause, creating a series of breathing accompanied by the shifting of hand gestures of thumb, ring and middle finger collaborations and combinations.

 

"So... Take my hand. And take my whole life too, cause I can't help falling in love with you."

 

"Like a river flow...surely to the sea. Darling so it goes, some things are meant to be."

 

  **∞Ӂ∞**

 

 ** _"So won't you please take my hand and take my whole life too?"_** The recorded voice of an older man, Elvis Presley, began playing while Molly and John had danced around in circles.

 

"My father used to sing me that song John." Molly whispered against John's fully layered chest.

 

"Hmm. _Let me sing it now for you,_ would you let me, Molly?"

 

"Okay."

 

" _Cause I can't help falling in love with you_." John said soothingly as the music floated against its medium. Molly smiled as the words leave his mouth, without realizing the _true point and meaning_ of the young man's words.

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

Molly felt her knees failing her as she continuously remembered things about John, her father, mother and siblings, but she had snapped out of reality when words started feeding through her ears.

 

"Why Mycroft? Out of all the people, Molly Hooper, Really?" She flinched at the sudden mention of her name by Sherlock. She held her ears closely against the cold titanium doorframe. "You're being a mutton-headed lad, brother mine." _Wow. Is this somewhat a cold war between the Holmes brothers? Should I interrupt or let them, but eavesdropping is a sin,_ yet it is not as if she had not done that kind of thing by any means, so she let _it_ pass.

 

"This is not a sentiment nor compassion. This is merely work. A job of keeping my people away from harm." She could hear Mr. Holmes's audible annoyance as his voice changed into different ranges.

 

"And Molly?"

 

"Is _your_ pathologist." She started to get some panic completely losing herself as beads of sweat, cold, clogged within her skin pores. **_What. Does. This. Have. To. Do. With. Me?_**

 

"And why **_waste_** your time _over other's possession_?" Sherlock asked. **_Bugger!_** She is not your possession! **_I am not._**

****

Molly started to get feelings of vexation and gull on Sherlock's words and language used. All she wanted to do was to cry. The last time she felt like this was a week ago, when her father died out of multiple complications that caused his heart to drop during his flight to do some business trip, none of them had known that he had fallen seriously ill. _He was a happy man, a man of firmness_. However, she knew that once a life was given, it shall be returned in a given time and place— he would be turning into dust, who floats in the air as the _East Wind_ does. She knew that it was the good Eddie's time to be with the heavens, his purpose done, his fatherly figure no longer needed, and his children had grown old to it. The thought made her heart ache and her stomach twitch as the word ' ** _waste_** ' escaped through the bloke's thin pink lips.

 

 ** _No Molly, you needed to be strong_** _...stronger than what you are because_ —"She is her work" Mycroft said inside the box giving murmurs and sounds.

 

"And you like her—" _What?_ _Sherlock?_ Voices within her head started turning creating her vices—her weaknesses, emotions. How could a man as cold as him, as masked as him would ever like her—"Work." Mycroft added those words. Sudden emotions rushed within her neuroglia, dictionaries could never explain such vague word of mixed emotions—relief, rejection, assuage, and alone. Memories of Jim Moriarty's experiences and encounters dashed to her consciousness. **_That man_**.

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

Jim from the IT was not one of the bad people, not one of the evils, **_at least_** _to her_. The first time they have seen each other was on the hospital's reception. He was talking with the man in-charge regarding some matters when Molly had walked through the doors to sign her attendance for the day, then things happened quickly, like they had talked with each other and he had already known her— ** _very well_**.

 

The day did not just end with their conversations as acquaintances, but he had actually searched her name through the Bing, Yahoo, Google, or any search engines that he knew—giving him a result, a match, the Molly Hooper blog. He had read each pointer, each paragraph that _sounded like a list_. She knew it... Yes she knew it, he kept talking about how cute the cats were and how pink could the flowers stood out of the background. **_At least someone like him had noticed Toby and her blogging skills_** , if Sherlock would be the one who will read it out and praise her, she would be willing to die and let the ground open and munch her with the head— _but whom is she fooling_ , the man would never notice her, the feelings. She knew his brains could never miss the tiniest change that were occurring to a person's appearances, like her lipstick, he said that **_she's not wearing enough_** — She knows that he was up to something or he just wanted to make fun of her. Yet all he knew were the facts around and never were the motives of each fact of acts, **_but Jim_**. All he is, was gentle and kind, he never asked her to **_be like this and that_** , what he wanted for her was to **be Molly Hooper**. He never cared what clothes were she wearing for each rendezvous, but he never failed to compliment her.

 

Hi, sorry, are you the lady who works in the morgue? The one with the nose?

- **Jim 26 March 00:14**

****

She knew that it was her that the man was talking about, but _Who is this man? Jim? Never heard of him._ She thought.

 

Sorry! I work in the IT dept. Stupid night shift!

**-Jim 26 March 00:17**

 

 ** _Oh silly_**! The guy who’s talking with the receptionist, **_remember him Molly_**? She had forgotten to ask the man, beforehand his name, **_bugger._** Now, she does not know what to reply.

 

Are you alright? You've gotten quiet?

**-Jim 26 March 00:22**

 

Sorry. I'm just feeling a bit silly. I didn't know anyone read my blog.

What's wrong with my nose?

**-Molly Hooper 26 March 00:26**

 

 

One. Two minutes. All Molly did was to sip the tip of her mug for a drop of caffeine.

 

 

Nothing. It's a cute nose. I hope you don't mind me saying. I'm here all night so I need more coffee.

**-Jim 26 March 00:28**

 

 

Molly... Are you really like that? _What Sherlock had said?_

 

**_You're wearing too much._ **

****

**_You're not wearing enough._ **

****

_Very predictable._

Forget about that chesty man. Molly typed and pressed the enter key to post her thoughts.

 

Okay.

**-Molly Hooper 26 March 00:30**

 

After two ticks from the wall clock...

 

Do you like coffee?

**-Jim 26 March 00:32**

 

How could he knew—  is he like Sherlock? A good guesser or a lucky one.

 

Yes.

**-Molly Hooper 26 March 00:34**

 

The two-minute consistency was gone when she refreshed the browser from her desktop.

 

Would you like to meet for a coffee? In the canteen?

**-Jim 26 March 00:35**

 

 ** _Should she count this as a date? Of course not._** She barely knew this man though they are under this one umbrella of St. Barts, but she could not just let things fall into their places.

 

Coffees have been their relationship's foundations— they usually meet during lunches, and dinners with it as their beverage choice. They knew that was not normal for both, too much intake of caffeinated drinks can induce gastrointestinal problems, dehydration, convulsion, diarrhea or even endocrine problems, such as hypoglycemia. **_God! They're both working in a hospital! How could they not know such?_**

 

  **∞Ӂ∞**

 

On the 29th, Sherlock had posted some cryptic messages or **Hidden Message** as what he put it out. And Molly, who happened to be _stalking_ Sherlock, as how and what people put out or do when they are checking out on their crushes ** _—obvious, innit_**?, had posted something also on her blog, I mean diary, in which she believes that someone would be willing to help her, _and Sherlock_. It was the Hidden Message #2 that she had linked, the first message had turned out to be a piece of cake for there was a clue about a Roman Emperor, all she did was to apply the Caesar Cipher she had searched via _Wikipedia_. Though the sample given had only two shifts, she had tried to understand the pattern to get to the right number of shifts.

 

**DSPCWZNV T LX HLENSTYR JZF**

 

It was a twenty-two-charactered message with a T separated from V and L. The greatest possibility that its counterpart is A is 40, and if it is I is 60. **_Why?_** Simply because of the LX, which simply stands for AM. **_Common sense Molly_**. _How about the **22** , with regards to the shifting?_ Simply divide it by two, 22/2, will give you eleven, which is the number of shifts you have to do— **backwards**. Try it with the first three letters given as clues, T, and LX.

 

Or a simple arithmetic, using numbers as a representation of each letters, subtracting eleven, and counting the value from A(=1).

T=20(letter translated to numbers)

L=12

X=24

 

20-11= 9; which is I

12-11= 1; which is A

24-11= 13; which is M

 

After a few minutes of applying the strategies and techniques—Molly had produced the decoded message, saying:

 

**SHERLOCK I AM WATCHING YOU.**

 

That made her nose running _, her cute nose_. **What a creep**.

 

The next message had been the _key to the watershed_ of her relationship with Jim. She knew that she is a sensible girl. **_She was everything that defines sensibility_**. She needs something for a reason, she wants Jim for a reason, and _she needed him to show it_ , more than that of how Sherlock could provide reasons.

 

**You will never find me. I live off the grid.**

**SOMNEHCCGTEKOTYRIMOOLAIGU**

 

 _Now, that Hidden Message could kill him someday._ She thought, but everything about it was a thought and if it could indeed get him into dangers then she would be willing to help ** _, just to save him_**. She was snapped out of her thoughts when Jim commented on her post regarding the hidden message #2.

 

I think the word 'grid' is a clue. There are 25 letters in the message...

**-Jim 29 March 10:02**

**_Yes, that's it! Definitely!_** How could she miss it, when it was on the first one, all she could do was _to count_ , and there, here on the second, _she had counted_ , not on numbers—but on a man? He was just one of the few, dad, Johnson, Giovann, and Sherlock ** _— they always counted_**.

 

Fancy another coffee? :)

**-Jim 29 March 10:07**

 

 _25= 5x5 Grid..._ All she needed to do was _to apply and add_ the clue. From Jim. She knew she had made a sensible choice of dating a _sensible person_ , all she needed to do _was to apply and add that clue— they could make it work._

 

The next meeting was great, the whole day, including the night they had shared in front of the telly, in front of Finn, Rachel, Blake, Kurt _and Toby_ , who had witnessed how they lips had synchronized together, creating mouthful discourses of tides, exchanging amylase out from each glands. The Glee casts had watched every single moment, every bits of fistful kisses and nuzzling of necks creating different shades of grey, that turned into a much more daring scene before the telly's exchanges, clearly, they needed privacy—so the viewers were turned off by remote—they're about to enter a cave of passion.

 

Jim had traced each contours etched along the curves of his partner from her heels up to her lip, planting landmarks and keys on each type of soil he would encounter. Molly, herself seemed to be enjoying the scene hovering above her, the wetness of his lips from their mixed saliva, the three buttons of his shirt undone from the tide of passion, his eyes burning from the waves of thrusts. He was soft and mild, never harsh at first, but as the friction crushed—he had the feel of need, overpowering his senses and that need did not stop itself after their coitus, he had pushed her to various levels of ecstasy, filling his balloon with his _germs_ almost popping around her walls.

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

On the first of April, Molly had herself the need to visit her lab, and there inside stood John Watson looking at Sherlock, who had his eyes glued with the microscope. She had the urge to make a move when Jim had made an entrance and all she had left to do was to introduce both parties with one another.

 

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." She had simply forgotten about _John_ , well his name.

 

"Ah!" Jim muttered.

 

"And uh... Sorry?" She asked the man who seemed to be Sherlock's company.

 

"John Watson, hi." She made a mental note of that name for future purposes.

 

Jim had begun talking and walking around Sherlock, blocking John away from Sherlock's reach. Molly had started saying how did they met— ** _Office Romance_**.

 

Molly was snapped out of her reverie when Sherlock mumbled a forbidden word, the first step of their relationship's destruction, " **Gay**."

 

All her plans came crushing down. She once planned of settling down with Jim, no. She always planned ever since they had met. She knew that he is the fundamental item that could create a bar between her and Sherlock. She thought that he would be _the man, the knight, and her prince who will take her away, save her from the tower, from the wrong doings_ —  but he isn't that. He had disappeared like the dust. Their office romance had bloomed and flew like the daffodils, all ended at the next Fox’s Glee episode, ended with her ludicrous question. **_Molly, you are a sensible girl, where did that came from?_**

 

 

The moment that she could let her father meet Jim had slipped away all because of that arrogant man. She wanted to get tempestuous over him and that matter, but she could not. _He had turned her into a mouse_ , she could not. To be honest, a big part of her wanted to be happy...but,

 

**_Why'd you have to spoil— ?_ **

 

Could it be the start or a spark of the fire of life? Is he, Fyter the Tin Soldier had finally reached the Oz and had his heart back, **_Sherlock, are you?_**

 

The less than a half part of her valves wanted her to commiserate over Jim. And more likely, with Sherlock—  she knew he was alone. He is maybe apathetic but deep within he is not, he is a man, who simply wanted attention, who wanted someone to care about him. Moreover, she knows Sherlock, he does care too, but his way, _his kind of path may not involve empathy._

  

Hers and Jim's fairytale love story had finished with an evil creature's magic wand, a supposedly happy ending of the prince and the princess, who had eaten a poisonous apple, had gone all wrong—  everything's messed up. She would still lay in her terrible deep nightmare, alone, wandering around deathly hallows where witches and the wicked lay, while her dwarves continuously weeping over her lifeless yet breathing body. _When will this nightmare stop, when will her Charming would go and get her? When will he ever liberate himself under his own spell—  and let himself experience human errors, with her?_ Or maybe all she is, **was unfortunate**. One of those ladies or women who had never been made to procreate, to multiply, one of those who, from the beginning, was never meant to marry, never had a mate. _She may be nothing but **alone.**_

 

****∞Ӂ∞** **

Looking back around the present, she could hear Sherlock's distant voice having different pitches as each ideas flash around animated in his head. "Molly Hooper, pathologist, Oxford, thirty three years of age. Of English decent. Parents, both Englishmen. What else? Ahh! Mental assessment—  She thinks she's worthless, of low self-esteem. She hates to be the scene, lacks better judgment, barely uses her common sense, very emotional in terms of... everything."

 

Molly was having a break down. Her teeth nipping at her right thumb, unaware of possible presence of formaldehyde along the spaces between her nails, her left palm covering her forehead with her pinky nearly touching her lashes as her eyes lashed out muffled cries. Her nose, that Jim, her psychotic ex, had loved all because _of its purpose of nuzzling over Sherlock's business— **sticking out noses**_ , had gone red. She has been living with a high-functioning sociopath, **remember that Molly**.

 

"She's dumber than she seemed. Never, not anyone of sane will love her for those." _All you will be is lonely, Molly._

 

All she could do was to close her eyes as her occipital bone and backbones had slipped and slide itself downward making her body sitting in an awkward position, her legs curled, her head down, ball shaped, against the cold walls and floor as her head pounded between Sherlock's words and Jim's last few words.

 

  **∞Ӂ∞**

 

"Molly. I have never loved you. Everything is all a plan. A plan. I used you. Are you that dumb, for not realizing as such stupidity? Maybe you are."

 

"But Jim. I don't care whether you're gay or not."

 

" _And I don't care about you too_. I am sorry bugger. _Molly's no more_. You will be dying alone. Toby? Will die earlier than you are, they are animals, aren't they? You will be alone, loveless, lifeless. Poor Molly. All nothing but a goldfish. In addition, with that I have proven, that you are nothing but a piece of trash around Sherlock, you are of no importance. Therefore, I might spare your life. Isn't it sweet Molly? For me to see you suffering from loneliness and sorrows, that is _a sensible death_ for you, Little Miss Perfect. I'll grant your wish."

 

"You. Are. Mad! I'll phone the police!"

 

"Ah-Uh. Wrong move." He said as he gestured his right hand around his neck as if he's cutting his throat. "Bad Molly. Pointless. They know me already. Idiot." Then made a tick tock noises from his vocal chords.

 

"Jim!"

 

"And thank you for that night! I will keep that in my memory _stick_. And the name is James. Professor James Moriarty."

 

That was the second of the April. All she wanted to do was to phone the police, or at least Sherlock, but she knew, doing that could lure the man away from _his_ beehive and protection, making _his_ life perilous, in which she could not afford to happen, besides, it will not be a win-win situation for her part.  _You are sensible Molly._ What she planned was to let Jim, or James, whoever he is, do what he wanted and go with how things flow.

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

As she let her own tears _flow_ , her eyes bloodshot, her head against her forearms; she could feel and hear that the Holmes's are merely deducing. _What? Her coat—  what the bloody hell, Sherlock?!_

 

"But the owner won't buy such as that for herself." She could hear voice swearing as the man let the words dash out of his mouth.

 

Yes. He is right. Mycroft Holmes is precisely correct. She will not buy such thing for herself. Didn't she or at least Meena tell them that she had avowed to God and to the blog that she is a mad old cat woman, and she will be devoting all her time with domesticated cats and Toby. _Are you that predictable?_ Out of such information such as being associated with sociopaths and psychopaths, geniuses and savants, or gifted and the dead, you have been so afraid that people might leave you and your weird personality. _Afraid of your own shadow?_ That you're letting yourself, just taking care, petting a cat?

 

**_Doctor of No Back Bone._ **

 

None of that is true. **_Molly Hooper is not predictable_**.

 

 _Look at the point, of a joke— name games?_ Her name is the popular aquarium fish, aside from her real name Mary, and she is a fish! Who bought a cat, who petted a cat, taking care of a cat, Toby. Toby, itself might have gotten its name from Shakespeare's The Twelfth Night, Sir Toby Belch, who was a snobbish yet lively, vitalized and noisy character—  quite the irony of Molly Hooper but the fact that she's taking good care of it reflected her means, her weaknesses—  that kind of person it is. In addition, Sir Toby was very fond of his affections towards Maria, which is the Greek variation of the English name Mary, which is Molly's real name. Another is that, his name might be from the Toby Jug, probably named after Toby Philpot, who was a drunkard—  however, isn't it funny to see King Philip's name with it, the husband of Queen Mary I, should I consider this a coincidence? Moreover, Toby Jugs were character jugs in which, usually, _a stout English king, bearing a smaller mug of alcohol and a pipe of tobacco or cigarette on each of its hands, dressed in the 18th century fashion_ , cozied on his seat, with a hole on its three-cornered hat for pouring. How nice it is to see things relatively arranged, accordingly, in a weirdly fashioned way.

 

 

 ** _See how unpredictable Molly Hooper is?_** Neither one of the Holmes would admit it nor the Scott-guy, because _She is dumber that what she seemed._ It is not Jim who messed up hard, it is Sherlock.

**Very predictable.**

  **∞Ӂ∞**

"By a man."

 

"Last time with her family." When her ménage is still a family, not when what she felt was alone. She had thought as her cries worsened at the thought of her father, who had become her inspiration. A Christmas Night. The greatest gift she had ever received from _a stranger_ —  the fact that the stranger is actually the gift himself, _her father_ , that every little girls with a _disabled household_ would ever wished for had come true, not within her lala land, but her senses, her consciousness. Then after nearly twenty years the gift had vanished, as if a kiddo would play with his favorite worn out toy car— which was suddenly being returned without any notices, yet she knew things get refunds, and that she kept on praying, praying that once, she need not be alone anymore.

 

A year after their dismissal, her mother had gone back home with collections of stones and powdered materials that her brother Giovann wanted so much, also a collection of stories from different mining operations they had been in search of radioactive chemicals needed for the research that their father's team had been doing. Her mother had made a final demand or an ultimatum over her father, Eddie, which he needed to be home within three years, which he obliged. That three years later, he had stayed home and started putting up a business of Fish and Chips, and promised to never be back in Holland, which he had fully done. He never fly out of the country ever since then, except last week. All he did was managing his business and managing his family, which in return, Molly had soon, little by little, given up her hatred and regained back her trust with her father, at least once in her life— someone had been there for her, someone who'd be willing to offer her a hand.

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

 ** _When it rains, it pours_**. Indeed. Molly's been showered with happiness that a family could share; and sooner as it is she could call herself fortunate, lucky that she had even got a friend, named Johnson, who himself was like her, of same circumstances, socially. Each had helped one another in building each blocks and foundations, so that one would never feel alone, one would find companion out of each lost souls— and they had found each, however, he had made mistakes that Molly can't even bear to forgive.

 

The pride stood beside those foundations they had made one that said, **"Never forgive him. Never give him a chance. He's not worth any bit of you."** And the other voice said **—"Give him at least a chance, please Molly."** **"No. You are no good for him Molly. He's smart, blonde, charming, good, but all you are...is a fish, waiting to be eaten by a cat, I'm you don't want John be killed and be eaten also by the same cat? _Molly, you'll never forgive yourself."_**

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

"A man who gave it to her was a gay friend." Gay. She knew it was a gift from Giovann, she knows her brother isn't possessing any gay hormones or had any genetic alterations, for God's sake's he's the oldest lad of the Hooper siblings. Moreover, the University he has been admitted do not and never suggest any of that, though she knew how her brother's libido doing, but his type of girls did not induce any doubtful acts regarding his sexual preferences. He is all straight. He is her _brother._

 

"There ain't no gay friend who'd prefer giving her a coat of that." _Now, that is under the belt. You, Sherlock Bloody Holmes._

 

Was she really an old cat person?  What's wrong with her preferring cats which are less of fuss? All she could do was to bit her lower lip to, at least, ease the pain that her heart and head had been feeling with the continuously flowing of her opened dam of tears and overly damped sweat from body heat due to changes of emotions, not of the temperature. All she wanted to do that moment was to raise herself up to her feet, _two strong feet_ , and slap Sherlock directed to his face or even punch him harder than what John Watson had made out of his embossed cheekbones. But—who is really Sherlock Holmes? How could she do that really, when all she is was a mouse and a goldfish. She could not kill _a cat, or a bird_ —she could not murder, yet she could _fake a death_ , or _murder you with words_ , but lawfully admitted, murder is not any of her edges. Well, she might kill herself first rather than kill him— she is a nothing but an ' **emotional machine made up of skin and bloated muscles, no back bone.'**

 

She knew she could never give up, never let the evils from hell, or the angels of death defeat her being. She could do this, but her feet had buckled, weakened by the strong winds that held her feet on the ground. _They_ , his words, had made her helpless, worthless, and in need of a companion, and not even Toby could help her _useless_ body.

 

"Gift of Forgiveness."

 

"To preserve the memories."

 

Her head wanted to succumb to the pain, to their manipulation on each moment. Familial memories. She had not been in Rome for some _sick_ reasons of romantic getaways or sex holidays. The brothers may have deducted correctly that she had been from Rome and her overcoat has not washed because of memories but they had gotten it all wrong about the conferences. She had been there to go on a search... _A search.\_

 

  **∞Ӂ∞**

 

 **"Be a man, Mycroft."** Mr. Holmes could not afford to see her all in such a mess, she wanted to lash out, to get that coat and to lock herself inside her flat, securing it like a vault of gold that no locksmith or genius could break in, yet he had seen her—he had lashed through the doors and stood like the tallest skyscraper she had ever seen _, like the young piano man who had stood with his tough poise_.

 

**_Take my hand. And take my whole life too._ **

 

She adjusted her blurred vision to a focus to see the British Government extending his hand towards her reach with his eyes full of concern and pity, and his lips curled upward forming a small smile. She had accepted the hand, _she thought his hands were cold_ , but once she had walked into it she had felt how warm his fingerprints are, how delicately his parents DNA had sculpted his palm imprints and how visible his strong arteries were on his carpals. In spite of how her brain managed to do such impeccable thought and process, her mouth had only managed to pop out the word, "Why?"

 

He propped her up against the walls and produced a milk-shaded plain hankie out of his left pocket and offered it to her.

 

"Here. Molly, take this."

 

She did not want to accept it; instead, used her lab coat's sleeve ends to rub it against her bloodshot eyes. _It is her pride, which works. **Really works**._

 

"Doctor Hooper." Mycroft had leaned down his face then lift Molly's chin, making her arms fall down to her sides, she then closed her eyes, blocking it from the lights, his eyes, and the possible things that might happen.

 

The next thing she felt was **_his_** _dry, fluffy, aromatic_ hankie being rubbed with gentleness against her eyes down her chin. "Molly." He said as she opened her eyes freeing itself from the darkness and isolation of her void.

 

She found herself looking at his cold blue eyes, which were previously full of pity and concern, though she could feel his fingertips leaving her chin and his right handling his hankie to her left open hand, and his stiffness against her warm body. Molly could no longer process anything— not anymore, he might _turned her into a mouse_ , but all the feelings rushed, her, being alone, being lonely, isolated from her peers which **_urged her to do a thing_** she might regret in the future, a cause of failure, the doom, the damnation.

 

She hugged him tightly, inhaling the endless scent his pulses had created, not caring about the present nor the future. Her sealed dam of tears had opened and began spluttering the liquid on his right chest, with her both arms around his neck, locked by his hankie, which she is holding against his dorsal neck or nape.

 

"I'm sorry, Molly." He had his right hand patting her back, while his left is on his side—quite nervous and unsure of what he is doing.

 

"I looked like a mess." She hugged him tighter than that of her intensity minutes earlier.

 

The feeling was surreal, like a phantasmagoria. The warmth radiating out of Molly's body made Mycroft relaxed. As he could feel her relaxed too, his right hand turned flat against her back and felt it ran back and forth slightly playing with the edges of her hair, while his left hand steadily holding her at waist, with his thumb working in circles. His head began leaning down as his nose nuzzled her scalp of strawberries and steady his breathing. **Be a man, Mycroft** , Sherlock's voice echoed.

 

"It's okay Molly. No one ever wanted it to happen. Everything's going to be okay." _What are you saying Mycroft? This is not any hostage taking, murder or anything concerning the country—that might involve peace talks and treaty; this is merely Molly, a sensible girl._ His inner voice mumbled.

 

"I just felt so lonely."

 

"Sorry. But." He began thinking of the proper words to say.

 

"No. Don't be. Do not be sorry for me. This is my choice. It is I, who should be sorry for myself. _I don't feel that someone is around_."

 

"Yes. It's just the _two of us now_." Mycroft answered.

 

Molly has chucked at his answer and answered, "Yes. It's _just_ the two of us."

 

"Your deductions..." Snort. "Are correct, however, relatively incorrect." Molly said.

 

"What do you mean?" **Very unpredictable.**

 

"I was in Rome last week, not in a conference. I was having a search over the plane crash. My father...he died. I went there for the retrieval of his body." Molly had said, sadly.

 

" _I know_. I'm sorry for your loss Molly." His grip tightened making Molly look up from his chest.

 

"Thank you, Mister Holmes." _A signal_. She said as she loosened her grip and freed him.

 

"You're welcome, dear. Those were Sherlock's assumptions. And don't mind apologizing, we both had made a fairly mistake." He looked on his chest on his right side where Molly had left her tracks, making her blush.

 

It was a mute conversation as their eyes met for a brief moment, then Mycroft leaned down to her ear and whispered, _"Thank you for being strong, Doctor Hooper."_

 

"Ahm, your hankie?" Molly asked as Mycroft turned his body away from her.

 

"Keep it. It's also _yours_." She looked down at the hankie, flushed as she read the initials embroidered with prestige.

 

**‘M.H.’**

 

**∞Ӂ∞**

 

**_Cause I can't help falling in love with you._ **

 

"Sir! We have to go." The door burst open, revealing two older men in black, not like Agents Kay and Jay of M.I.B. (Kill-Joys) having pellet guns, rather bodyguards.

 

"Thank you Miss Hooper. For being strong." Was all he could let out after he finished pulling down the cover of the piano keys and tugging his coat free from dirt and dust as he stood again, upright as the dogs escorted him out of her reach.

 

Her feet fell down as the doors closed. Then she felt herself crying as she read the note written in the piece of paper:

 

 

**'See? You can do it! -Mom and Dad.'**

_All along, she had been so predictable._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
> 
> I know. I KNOW. I know.  
> And I'm very sorry about what I did with Molly Hooper.
> 
> Johnson Abraham Dempsey Scott is never related to Andrew Scott. Maybe with William Sherlock Scott Holmes? XD
> 
> MESSAGES WERE (from the Science of Deduction, Sherlock Holmes's lovely blog):  
> 1\. SHERLOCK I AM WATCHING YOU.  
> -clue: Roman Emperor  
> -using the Caesar Cipher of 11 shifts. 22 letters.
> 
> 2\. SHERLOCK I AM COMING TO GET YOU.  
> -clue: grid  
> -using the Grid Cipher of 5x5 grid. 25 letters.
> 
> 3\. SHERLOCK I HAVE FOUND YOU.  
> -clue: where the pigs live.  
> -using the Pig-Pen Cipher (same as that of Assassin's Creed but different placements of letters)  
> -ABC, DEF, GHI & JKL, MNO, PQR (arranged in 3x3 grids. 1st group, w/o dots; 2nd group, w/ dots)  
> -STUV & WXYZ (arranged in Xs or 2x2 grids. 1st group, w/o dots; 2nd group, w/ dots)
> 
> PLEASE READ(Especially for those who care about Molly Hooper's position, Sherlockians and Sherlolly-shippers):  
> "IT'S A TRICK... IT'S JUST A MAGIC TRICK."  
> I believe, that statement had slipped out of my hands before. And AGAIN, I'm SORRY MOLLY and SHERLOCK, but things between you both might improve later, as the story progresses :(:


	4. The Warhorses of Ivry I: Book of Hercule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Book. Christie. Detective. History. France. Case. Government. Doctor. Ivry. Hugo. Murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of the Warhorses case... Share your thoughts! And I'm very sorry for all the delays... 
> 
>  
> 
> I DO OWN NOTHING.  
> Gatiss, Moffat, Vertue and Doyle do own them.
> 
>  
> 
> THREE PEOPLE HAVE DIED WHILE I WAS WRITING THIS PART. 
> 
> Check the 'END NOTES' for translations. Thanks!

_The traveler answered:_

**_"It is the Field of the Lark."_ **

_And he added:_

_" **It was here that Ulbach killed the shepherdess of the Ivry."**_

**_"Yes, this is her field. I shall learn here where she lives."_ ** _The young man answered._

 

"Ulbach? Where the bloody hell did that name came from?" The little bloke asked his company.

 

"Ulbach. _Honore Ulbach_. The infamous murderer in 1827 in which he killed a young orphan of 19 on the Rue de Croulebarbe." Mycroft answered the question that his young brother bore as he, the young lad, exchange stares between the five-hundred five-page book and his audience, trying to dissever his attention and focus.

 

"How? Big brother?" The adolescent asked as he withdraws his book from his eyes, propping it down his folded knees, and focused only on the man at hand.

 

Mycroft had slid himself down, lower than his normal poised sitting habit, letting his right elbow straddled against the arm of his _comfortable seat_. His hand had shifted up to his face, letting his mid and pointer settle flat against his temple while his lower thumb placed at the intersection of his mandible and right ear, and his ring finger touched the tip of his nasal bone, near its hollow part.

 

"Which of _which_ , Sherlock? You have clearly indicated two questions. If not, elaborate."

 

"Any of which, brother. I want answers."

 

Sherlock lifted his weight from his back up, to shift his weight, pressing his knees fully on the carpeted floor as he clutched his book above his chest, moving to and fro, swaying with his breathing. His eyes burning from the desire of fascination that always drive him to such extents involving vertebrate anatomies and horrid murder and homicide cases, as he looked up to the void of Mycroft's emotionless and spiritless eyes giving him the look of pleasingly pleading kid.

 

"As you wish, brother mine." Mycroft spoke as a grin was drawn pointlessly on the space of his mandible and maxillae.

 

 **His phone had blinked thrice** , buzzed in hex, an indication of:

 

**3 Messages Received**

 

He had been sitting on the same position, eyes closed, when his brother had let him fly away, ticking the chains and lock, opening his cage to visit his Mind Palace; built from the first time he had read the pioneer of the World Literature, and got himself fascinated over the Greeks. A man of character, poet, Greek Simonides of Ceos had invented the art right after attending a banquet, which happened to be a failure. He the stepped outside to meet two young men. However, when he arrived outside, the young men were gone as the hall was collapsing behind him. Though his fellow banqueters were too badly grinded by the collapse for their remains to be identified, Simonides was said to be able to name each bodies based on where they had been sitting in the hall—  all because of he had remembered them based on their _locus_.

 

Sherlock checked his wristwatch, reading 04:21 PM; **_it had been a long adventure_**. Checking his sides, he saw Molly's fluffy coat that was still hanging over the seat, opposing Mycroft's popular brolly with the brown handle, and on the floor, the chemical splashed had dissipated through the air—  neither the glass nor the rug had moved or walked. Realizing one had never been back for their properties since 1:30 PM, he stood and punched the button to unlock his black-faced Apple.

 

He opened the conversation threads for the group **_"Government"_** and swiped the phone downward to view the preceding text message up to the latest.

 

**'No flight available. All has 2 stops to Barcelona. First class flights are fully booked, even economy and business. Availability is in Gatwick. Would you take an hour and fifty-minute ride? I was dedicated to give you a little gift."**

**-MH'**

Today, 02:15:16 PM

 

_'A gift?'_

 

**'Mr. Holmes would like to offer you a free flight with his private jet. Please behave within its premises.**

**-Anthea'**

Today, 02:30:11 PM

 

_'Free? I'm pretty sure that obese big brother of mine is up to something bloody.'_

**'Get your ass up now! Now. Sherlock. The livings cannot wait forever. Jet is on Heathrow.**

**-MH'**

Today 4:19:42 PM

 

_That posh fat king._

 

 **The phone then kept ringing** as Molly huddled her body through the vacant streets of her flat towards a landmark that she, herself, don't want to answer any minute of her day.

 

"Uh. Hello? Evening. Molly Hooper's flat. Who's talking?" Crying was evidently depicted by her type of talking, her usage of words and her apparently usage of sorrowful exclamations. She had irritated her right eye with her right hand encircled as stones as she rubbed the unevenly circular shape of her orbit, occupied by her eye.

 

"Molly? Shall we meet? This is John... I am sorry for the inconveniency of this call. It is okay if you are not available at the moment...but... _how am I going to say this?_ I just thought you wanted a companion. You know...with all your crying." Once he stopped talking, an awkwardly built space stood behind each prison making them locked up in each thought. John. One of the last names she wanted to hear yet one of the first name she wanted to feel. _John Abraham Dempsey..._

 

"Doctor Hooper? This is John Watson. You still there? Shall I get there...? I mean… to check on you?"

 

 _No. It is Watson_.

 

"No need John. I am fine, really. I do not need any help or any other person in my life. I intend to do things on my own. Bloody life it is John. Anything..." She took the big lump forming in the walls of her throat as her tears started to fall back. " _Everyone... I. Knew. Mine. Were always gone_. I'm not a good keeper, am I?" She was helpless.

 

"Molly... I know that you are still moving on from Sherlock's death, but every single thing happens for a purpose. _We cannot control such force._ Now all we should do is to live our lives out of these binds. _I know_ what you are feeling. Even I…myself, still can't believe that he would do things like Van Gogh—you know the suicide, though they’re both genius." He said, laughing as he tried to comfort her through words from the other line.

 

_No John. I'm alone. All alone._

_And these? Are things you never know. Never shall and will. You do not know anything._

 

"Thank you John for the offer, but I can't accept it and I can't reject it either, quite impolite? Right. I'm sorry, John."

 

"No Molly. Keep it. Anytime, just call me. You know where I am." She could hear his remorse on the other line, but afraid to show it.

 

"Thank you John. Bye. I'm so sorry." They both know how to be left, how to be lonely, alone. The line dropped dead as Molly breathe out her breath as her nose clogged by the congestions and her nasal fossa slightly swollen and so as her upper and lower lips from the previously gripping or biting with her dentition.

 

She walked back the flat's hallway and opened the door opposite her door, revealing the bathroom.

 

 **Looking at his face within the two-meter range** , Sherlock slid his slender hands along his jaw line. Taking his hands all over the plains and trees that cover his flat face, stubble of unshaven maxillofacial and mandibular hairs had stood on its path. He had the urge to clear them inch by inch however, his mind would still suggest to leave it, as a part of a disguise in order to keep his anonymity. He leaned more towards the mirror to check his curls which are neither visible to the common eyes. He had made Molly turn it into auburn and cut it short like that of a military man, thin haired in both sides, carved through perfection, thickly woven into straight strips on the top, no curled ends involved yet. After a minute of examining his facial perfection, he took the hidden glasses he had kept above the cabinets for a disguise that he had used once for a useless disguise as a parish church priest being molested by a group of individuals, together with his partner, John Watson. He had hid it on his inside pocket and washed his face with lukewarm water directly flowing from the faucet windows. 

 

Molly rushed back towards her room to get some little sleep after her exceedingly stressful day's event with Sherlock, Glory, Mycroft, and herself, as her phone buzzed and flashed an anonymous number she hadn't ever seen.

 

**_'Molly, I'm sorry but I must go. Check all the things you have left. Those may help in the future. I know your cold. Get it. -W.S."_ **

 

The man stood as the scribbled note is being scooted down to the desk along with some materials. He then walked towards the empty doorway to ease himself from the closed space as his newly greened eyes clung against his optics.

 

He got his feet standing on the cold cement, starting his locomotion away from St. Bart's, his eyes darting at the black Jaguar XJ Saloon. Once he had opened the door, and adjusted himself against the seat, only to find Anthea looking at him suspiciously, her hands idle from her phone.

 

"Mister Holmes has been waiting at the Heathrow for three good minutes." She said as she started looking back at her phone, hitting buttons as fast as she could, as accurate as it will ever be.

 

"No, he hasn't. To tell you what Andorra? What? Anthrax? Oh, Andrea, Mycroft bloody hates waiting. I know my fat brother. As I could see _, **he** is on his way going to a tea shop_. **It's getting dark**." Sherlock looked at her with his blue eyes hidden from the green ones.

 

"Oh. I see." The car had started rolling its wheels, heading north on West Smithfield.

 

"I also think that **_she'll_** be having a date probably with who? Grayson? Albert? Lestrade. **Aren't you?** " He looked at Anthea with his left eyebrow smiling upward.

 

"Yes. Mister Holmes." The car had turned itself right into the Giltspur Street, then the Holborn Viaduct, turning right.

 

"Welcome. _Andrea Guillory_." Anthea shoot her head upward and smiled at Sherlock's direction.

 

"Is that your real name?"

 

"No." She now had her head rooting at her phone.

 

His service had left the whole Holborn route, including the High Holborn, entering the Southampton Row, and turning left onto the Russel Square.

 

**'Are you alright? I am _sickly worried_ over you, Molly. -John Watson'**

 

_Had he changed his number?_

 

Probably yes. With the entire Sherlock Holmes suicide incident, he seemed to be taking thing easy. _How could John move on that fast...and me, who do not count that, much...why?_

 

All her thought had troubled her mental health. She had been hearing inner voices purely of Sherlock's baritone saying how useless she is. _How dumb she could be. How klutz she is._ She wanted to throw her head against the mirror standing and leaning against her brown and pink paneled walls, and never wake up as her gallons of tears leave her duct in-need of water, dehydrated, with her blood from her sagittal suture skin layer flowing freely, mixing the former with the latter. **_How miserable._**

 

She tried to type a message as she cleared her head with those horrendous thoughts of a suicide to John Watson.

**'Yes John. I am getting _nearly_ good. I'll call you once I'm better.-Molly'**

 

Within a minute, he replied.

 

**'Yes. Molly please call me whenever you want someone to talk to, or I could drift there, as fast as I could.**

**-John Watson'**

 

_Really fast._

 

**'Okay. Thank you.'**

 

She closed her eyes as she hit the 'send' tab visible at her screen.

 

 **He was indeed fast.** His Jaguar was indeed flying. They were out of the Traffic Circle at Vitae Appartments, currently at the Chiswick High Road to Chiswick Lane when Anthea's phone had suddenly rung making Sherlock burst out of his thoughts and turning his eyes towards her alarmed facade.

 

_'Lestrade.'_

 

He tried to keep his attention away from the exchanges and pointless argument that the _two actors_ have been saying... Well, they are not really actors— _at least that's what he thinks of them._

 

" _You don't even have a clue why did I do that, do you_?" The older man started attacking the lady with his words.

 

" _How about you? Do you even have a clue about its aftermath? You don't even have **a clue**!_ " The woman tried to control her temper but as the last word has been blurted out of the blue, clearly, she could not afford to do.

 

"Yes. You are always like that. Saying things to me as if I am the only person...who commits mistake, Woman, you do not know either. You, and your time, always _committed to work— for work_. I would never have any idea why these kids are making distractions, because their mom, herself, is busy with her own distraction."

 

"Why? Why did you let Sherlock _witness your betrayal_? Let him see what you have? Then make this little poor kid be like you?! How dare you. Oh Sherlock." The lady turned her attention towards him and soothed his curly hair away from his face.

 

"I'm sorry, Violet. It is a mistake. Sorry. Sorry Sherlock. Forgive me." _His father_ had told him and his mother.

 

"Mummy. I'm sorry too. Forgive us please?" Sherlock hates to see his family like that. His father having his eyes closed from crying, his mother also, crying in front of him. They looked so vulnerable, susceptible to any kind of emotions, _they looked so weak_. He hated it— his parents looked weak. And so he is.

 

"For you son. I'll give everything up, for you, _my kids_." Sherlock had nodded.

 

He looked at Anthea who is still talking with her phone.

 

"Yes. Okay. Bye hunny. I am sorry. I love you." Sherlock could hear the other line dead as Anthea had lain her last words for the night.

 

"You go." Sherlock found himself saying those words as he looked at the dark tinted glass on his left, staring at Anthea's reflection as she looked at Sherlock's reflection, directly on his eyes.

 

"I'm sorry?" Her forehead creased as her eyebrows turned towards each other.

 

"You go after him, go after Lestrade."

 

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes. Why would I?" She laughed as she uttered and the lines in her forehead deceased and a smile crept up on her face.

 

"He may find other girls, much more of you, younger, beautiful, and smarter or anything you're not, and turn his head away from you. You better go after him, or else, let him go. I'm not good at pieces of advice but I'm giving you one." He hissed.

 

Anthea looked down then glanced back at Sherlock, considering his words of wisdom. Indeed, he may be right but...yes. _She needed to say something._

 

"Thank you Sherlock, but I won't care if that happens. I am sorry but I know that whether that will or not happen, Gregory will come back to me. He will stay with me. Now, if that is your advice, I'll keep it; maybe share it with my _doctor friend_?" Anthea grinned at Sherlock then looked directly at her phone typing. **_Consider that advice Sherlock._**

 

**_That one will come back, and stay, for you._ **

 

4:50PM. Molly can't even close her eyes, afraid of her nightmares that might claim her from the world. Why would she be afraid of sleeping? And not with the living? The fact that what she's living— is a nightmare, a damnation—   _with an incubus_ , who had wrapped her around his finger, his thumb, being pulled around by strings and wires, manipulated to her deeds and actions. She is afraid, that at any moment, she will wake up— things will all be a dream. John Watson's texts that exhibit his concerns and vexation towards her will all be deleted from her Messaging Inbox, and her and Mycroft Holmes's convergence will only be available on her memory as she recall things; as his handkerchief will dissipate itself from the air, or get dissolved once it'd been poured out with a liquid. _That she will be alone, once she had woken up_. She despised it, that feeling, just because of Sherlock Holmes's demeaning words.

 

They had been out of the Great West Road once as they entered the freeway at Exit 4 towards the Heathrow Airport, meeting its destination.

 

**'Sir. We are already here. -Anthea'**

✔ Sent 5:23:03PM, to Mr. Mycroft Holmes

 

**'Okay. You know what to do. In case the kid got lost, inform the agents surrounding the plane, make them scattered. -M.H.'**

Received 5:24:51PM, from Mr. Mycroft Holmes

 

Anthea kept her phone away from her phalanges' reach as she zipped it inside her coat's dark pocket, and then turned her attention to Sherlock.

 

"Mister Sherlock Holmes, I presume you do know to where you are departing." Anthea said soothingly and solaceful towards the man she is conversing.

 

"Oh yes. Better keep your phone to your other pocket, Lestrade can sneak that. Also, please inform my brother about Molly. Take care of her. _I can't afford to lose her_ at this state." He looked at her with a bit of empathy glowed behind his orbs.

 

"Okay. Everything has been taken care of. Once you got there, Henri will meet you. You can discuss things with him, take it easy, he's not like me." She winked and pointed her fingertip towards the jet, then added— "Good luck William!"

 

"Better bid that on your Henri." Anthea chucked as Sherlock propelled his feet far from hers towards the plane while smiling. _See you England. See you Molly._

 

 

It was like one of those days that he usually feel like he wanted to be a pirate and be like Albert Einstein whose hobby is sailing or even Stephen Hawking who likes fishing, that the thought of going into wilderness is the best feeling, but he won't do any of that...

**Boring. Boring. Boring.**

 

Boring is not necessarily be boring with him, or him being boring with it, but it is with Mycroft...he who thinks that those silly things are quite for kids, children ages 3-7. However, he is not a kid. _Not anymore_. Why would he still need to let his brother rule over his head?

 

**Because I know what's best for you.**

 

_Yes. He knows everything._

 

**Manipulation, through Deductions, the game for big guys, Sherlock. Baby brother.**

 

**Baby Brother.**

 

_And he's my Big Brother._

**Oh. The universe is indeed rarely so lazy.**

 

Two hours have passed, 7:25 PM in London and 8:25 PM here... All he did was to think and ensure his pack is in his reach. DNA Samples and a short notice of them taking off is all he need to slip his way from the Mind Palace.

 

"Monsieur Scott! _Bienvenue à Paris 1_! Welcome to Charles de Gaulle Airport!" Henri had made his way towards his stature and started mumbling Parisian words.

 

"Merci _2_.  Vous parle l'anglais pour moi ? Je sais que vous pouvez _3_." Sherlock asked the man standing in front of him, as he tried to deduce him.

 

"Oui _4_. Oui. Sure, Scott." He looked at Sherlock trying to maintain his eye contact as he tried to find his eyes quite atypically and strangely colored.

 

"Okay. Not a ginger. You're armed, well it's fine you're a Detective Inspector... Rushed here because of what? Who. I mean. A call from your superiors? I honestly think that maybe your girlfriend is getting a bit more furious over your merely fascinating reasons—  clearly, you both are in the middle of love making, aroused? Dark kisses from your neck, ear lobes and chin— love marks. A Caucasian. And your scarf, clearly used to prevent or restrain people from seeing those. What would Anthea think?" He started ruffling his science, as he looked at Henri, eye to eye.

 

"Oh— " He was trying to afford the words he's been looking for but Sherlock had found his way first.

 

"Ahh. She knows it... Why she is looking for other men. She's much and amazingly interested over Inspectors, I have no idea, may she find your intercourse videos on your phone or laptop." Sherlock crooked his head. "Also, your girlfriend seems to be much more of an importance rather than your wife in England."

 

"Va te faire foutre _5_ , Monsieur William Scott. First, Anthea is not my wife. She's my sister—  I am no ginger, because I was mousy-headed and I have to dye it. And the person you thought of as my girlfriend is my wife, _Andrea Guillory_." Henri tried to loom himself at Sherlock, who seemed to be fiddling with his fingers as he never showed attentiveness to his words. "And good for Thea. She had found someone— _more_ of her brother." He shrugged.

 

"Very well. Shall we?" Sherlock looked at Henri who now had his eyes at the cemented floor.

 

A Prayer. That's all he need to make things happen, for everything's under his control.

 

He settled himself against the mahogany brown seat that laid long for a massive number of devoted human wanting to vie and witness the beauty of the Basilique.

 

"Vergib mir Herr, für was soll ich machen _6_. Forgive me. I have to do this. One needs to die. _Lassen Sie Ihr Wille geschehe_." _Let Your will be done_. He closed his eyes and murmured quiet prayers in German language as a tear started to fall from his duct.

 

Walking as fast as he could, William Scott noticed a small dark silhouette of a horizontally oriented thing stationary that neither retrograding on its occupied space. "What's that, Mister?"

 

"The car, we were nearing its place. Henri. Henri Guillory." Henri said as he pointed his finger at the shadow.

 

"Guillory. Puissant ? Je doute que _7_." Scott hid his voice under his throat as he spoke with his Belstaff coat.

 

"I must thank you for that kind comment. Once again, te faire foutre _8_. I believed for once that this is professionalism. Then there'll be next, I'll doubt that." Guillory tried to fight off from his restrains and punch this man but he is not going to do that. **_We have rules, Henri Guillory_**. Mycroft Holmes's words echoed in his circulars.

 

"To where are we going?" Sherlock asked the ginger-dyed man walking with him, not strolling.

 

"To Rue des Loriots."

 

"30 Minutes. Oui?" Sherlock asked and run towards the car with a matter of 6 meters away from them, rushing against Henri, who seemed to be dazzled over the other man's act of spectacle. "Enfant, vous êtes en effet. Il n'a jamais tort. _9_ " He smiled, then his phone vibrated from his pocket— looked at it intently.

 

'Keep him close. Mister Holmes said that you must check on your temper... You might be surprised.-Anth'

Received 8:58:41PM

 

He punched each letter as he walked towards the car.

 

'Unbelievably senile. Please inform Monsieur Holmes that I am now cognizant of this man. Thank you. - Hen'

✔ Sent 8:59:54PM

 

Sherlock propped his head out of the open car window, looking at him.

"Henley. Or Harry Guilfordly! Hurry up! _The Game is on_."

 

_Kid, you are, indeed. He is never wrong._

 

Henri turned his head and ran as fast as he could towards the car.

 

The door bust open, revealing a man in a mystical aura of darkness as he doffed his moss coat out of his scapulae revealing a black shirt underneath a cardigan. He stood in front of a man wearing a formal suit, evidently an office person, CEO of a company— or a government official.

 

"What do you need, _Augustus_?"

 

"I need those drugs." He snorted and looked at the man's eyes.

 

"Why? N ' a Moriarty besoin d ' il10?" The man in suit asked the ragged man.

 

"Professor Moriarty is dead. And so I need it now."

 

" Oui. Il serait peut-être mort. La ligne de départ a été coupé, mais la fin n'est pas proche. Nous devons continuer ce que le professeur avait laissé inachevé.11"

 

"Well then maybe... Je vais l'obtenir, la manière forte. Desole(e). 12"

 

_Forgive me, for what will I do._

 

A 30 minute-ride had passed, the car's door opened for the third time, revealing two facades of men. A ginger and an auburn-headed bloke stood beside one as they paddled their feet towards the open doors of the house at Rue des Loriots. **_The Game is On._**

 

"Inspecteur-détective Guillory. L'un des membres du jury, Monsieur Jacques LeBlanc a retrouvé mort cet après-midi. Durée estimée de la mort, 16:50. 13" The young man dressed in a gendarme uniform had made his way towards the DI for reporting.

 

"Okay. Merci." Scott said as he stood in front of Henri, looming over his figure, from his previous position— which is a wall behind a door. The man had walked away and had gone to the other inspectors and gendarmerie that are firmly roaming around the crime scene. "What did he say?" Scott asked Henri in a susurrating voice.

 

"I thought you had fully understood it, yes?" Guillory asked as Scott mussitated curses under his breath, which earned a chortle from Henri.

 

"He said that a jury had died, 4:50 PM, named Jacques LeBlanc." He said grinning, annoying.

 

"Fine. I'll stop. Shall we check the crime scene?" Like a kid, Scott felt defeated as his head turned down, yet his eyes twinkled as the second thought dropped out of his mouth.

 

They were standing inside of a large mansion— well, they are not on the crime scene, but they were standing at the same property where the government official was killed. They totter their feet firmly, up the spacious staircase towards the room where a leaning glass was shuttered and blood spluttered, with a man lying in a suit directly had his head gravitated to the broken shards.

 

"Bloody. Death." Henri spoke as he waddled around the corpse. Looking over Scott who had his eyes glued at the body, waiting for a rush of emotions.

 

"A Government Official, a delegate of the country based on his suit— in which he had a small French flag pinned against his suit."

 

"Wait what?" 

 

"Caucasian— considering his name— LeBlanc, which means the white one. Give me a flashlight! Now!"

 

Henri obligatorily gave his portable flashlight to Sherlock as he asked him questions.

 

"What? A pin—  there's no pin, invisible? Pin where are you?!" Henri looked around, looking insane.

 

" ** _Lunatic_**." Scott said as he looked around the body checking if there are other bruises evident in the skin.

 

"Who?" Henri stood, looking at Sherlock with his eyes darting.

 

"Who do you think?" Sherlock bolted his head upwards looking at Henri, maintaining an eye contact, "Of course! This man. Clearly he was adopting an extreme, beyond the norm, or eccentric life view. What a bizarre! Look at his room, you might find something funny, quizzical things. Based on the undergarments he's using with rainbow yet undefined shades of colors."

 

"Monsieur Lamarck, vérifier sa chambre— rapport pour moi si vous avez vu des choses différentes anormalement. 14" Henri asked the gendarme.

 

"Oui Sir." The man rushed away and proceeded to other quarters to check for any other information that might play for this act.

 

 

 

"Ah. Hensley. Take a look at his eyes— green. Blood shot." Scott announced as Henri took a step towards the corpse.

 

"Yes. Perhaps his eyes were irritated, by something— pepper spray?" He spoke his ideas out of his head.

 

**_Show off._ **

 

"No. Wrong. Very much wrong. Have you smelled him, the tip of his nose or his forehead, no signs or presence of aldehydes, ketones or even the _oleoresin capiscum_. Think Wendy! He's wearing contact lenses, irritated by the improper dosage or supply of the solvent. Dead since 4:50? By all means, clearly, he must tip a droplet by 5:20."

 

"Good. Very good." Henri could no longer process other English words at the moment, but uttered words that his brain had never forgotten.

 

Scott scoot his body towards the office seat and sat himself against its lap.

 

Henri turned to look at one of the other gendarmes occupying the room with them and asked, "L ' arme? 's le meurtre Qu ' Est-ce Que d ' armes?" _Weapon?_

 

"Lunettes ' edges l ', Sir. le shards." The man answered shoving the evidence in front Henri, giving a view of the shards.

 

**_Complete the puzzle, Sherlock._ **

 

" _Shut up_!" Scott mummed under his breath.

 

"What?" Henri asked, shocked.

 

" **No!** Shall I elaborate how this trick happened?" He asked Henri as he turned his gaze at the other man and said, " Aller away young man., Nous requis de la vie privée. 15" Who nodded his head.

 

**_Privacy, Sherlock? Really? All you want was to show off!_ **

 

_Mycroft, the rules._

 

Yes. The rules. Beforehand, the brothers had formulated a set of rules regarding on how Sherlock would a solve crime with Henri, him as an apprentice of a Detective-Inspector, and not the detective, to keep such anonymity that they wanted to preserve.

 

Set of rules was given under the pseudonym of William Scott:

 

1\. Scott and Guillory, together, will do all the legwork, _but Scott will keep all the evidences and the whole cases for checking in his Mind Palace_.

 

2\. Guillory will not be allowed to go to any laboratories with Scott, unless it is of special circumstance such as Scott told him to do so, and he will never be allowed to speak to anyone regarding Scott and their cases given.

 

3\. Guillory will be the one who'll present who the suspects are— for conclusion and recognition. In addition, Scott is not a francophone so he'd be the translator.

  

**_You play with the rules? How infantile, Baby Brother?_ **

 

**Get out!**

 

"Of course." Henri had firmly blurted out the words with optimism _. So that he could go home and hit the night with his wife?_

 

"Oh yes. So that you could retire for the night, and continue your heat with your wifey." Scott had mumbled the last words; however, Henri had heard him.

 

"Yes. _Sort of_." Henri said while blushing, which earned a chortle from Scott.

 

"Standing, looking directly at the windows, firmly waiting for a friend, neither he knew that his friend will be his killer nor a colleague will kill him, eyes-wide shocked, clearly he knew who his murderer is."

 

A man knocked at the open door revealing the previous gendarme that Henri had asked to check the private quarters of the man.

 

"Monsieur. J'ai vérifié toutes les pièces de cette demeure. Il y a une salle de figures anatomiques, y compris les testicules, ovaires, digestif, organes pulmonaires, etcetera. Une autre est sa chambre, dispersés étaient choses du XVIIIe-XIXe siècle de France. Bizarre."

 

"Oui. Merci." He walked out of the room giving space for Scott, who's looking at the big window and Henri who's quite spacey.

 

"He said he had found the rooms weird. One with all the anatomical figures, the other with French memorabilia. You're correct." Henri looked at Sherlock.

 

"Yes. That's all that I need." Scott nodded.

 

 **Shall I call you John?** Molly asked herself as she looked at her phone with her head against the pillows of her pink mattress. I feel bad for him. Wait! I forgot my things, I wonder if that chesty man is still there.

 

He is not there. He is not living there. _Maybe he had gone scavenging_. Made a spectacle of himself over a case, or showing off? **No wonder, he is Sherlock Holmes.**

 

 

"So William Scott. What else? And how is that?"

 

"No. Not **how is that**. _Why is that_ he is there if he is standing in here in the window, then he had gone for a ten meter long steps? The answer involves the killer. Look at his table. The change in shade is not because of the temperature that can cause this kind of wood to expand or slide, rather because of the dust. The official sat here. In this part of the table, check the back of his pants, dust there are. The room has being occupied at least twice a month, or once a week— of dusty furnishings and the books are the evidences."

 

"So how is it connected to his death?"

 

"Henderson. What is inside your head, must be boring! What the bloody hell. Of course he isn't killed there! Rather here, perhaps, someone brought him there and laid him, glass shuttered. Not of shards. The glass is quite thick, two centimeter thick, Guilfordly! How could that thick get inside his bloody throat without any scrapes produced by excoriation? How could it possibly cut his throat easily and perfectly?" Scott asked looking at Henri.

 

"A doctor?"

 

"Yes. Someone as experienced as a doctor— that uses blades and scalpels. Murder weapon isn't shards, but a blade or a scalpel, pointed, probably 12?" Scott looked directly at Henri and smiled, devilishly.

 

**_Oh wait!_ **

 

"Kindly ask one of your cops regarding how things arranged inside those rooms, or no! Wait. I'll elaborate this trick first."

 

"What? You are all right?"

 

"Perfect. _All Right_."

 

Henri looked at Sherlock questioningly and moved his feet towards the open door, leaving two men, one— dead, the other living.

 

"Avez-vous vu quelque chose comme les indices à l'intérieur de ces chambres?"

 

"Aucun inspecteur-détective." _None?_

 

"Que diriez-vous les parties anatomiques, comment ils sont arrangés?" He asked the cop.

 

"N'arrangée à partir des organes génitaux, reins, intestins, estomac, poumons et un cœur— aucun cerveau inclus mais il y a un stand vacant, quelque chose doit être à l'intérieur de ce Monsieur." He answered, yet he added, "Oh oui Monsieur. Sur l'autre pièce, certains des drapeaux Français n'étaient pas suspendus, et il y a un drapeau, en fait qui a quelque chose à son intérieur, un crucifix. Et l'autre est un livre, doit être un roman. Je ne peux pas lire le sir d'écrits. Purement anglais16." _A crucifix. A clue. A book. A clue._

 

"Merci Monsieur." He said as he went back inside the room where Scott is.

 

"The murderer is _a right_ handed one, looking at the stroke of the incision. Left to right. Left's having a lot of pressure. And I could say, he's not a doctor, no not yet. The profession requires dexterity, precise and fair control over the hands. However, his handwork is quite the opposite. No control, different pressures. The shards of the ‘mirror shard’ weapon is just a hoax, used to deceive, the scalpel is still in the possession of the murderer. Cross. A crucifix? This room lacks its crucifix— it's missing. Look at the wall, the ‘cross part’ has no dust. I wonder where it had gone. And one of his books is gone." Sherlock said as he stood still inside his domain in the window.

 

"The book and the crucifix are found, at the chamber, the French room. Covered with the flag. And the other room lacks a small enclosure. They think it’s the brain, but it's too small to cage the brain— the genitals, kidneys, lungs, digestive tract, and the heart — that’s all they have seen." Henri informed him.

 

"And what book is it?" Scott asked as his brows crooked, quizzically.

 

" _Les Miserables_." Henri answered.

 

"We're going to Basilique de St. Denis."

 

**_Do you hear the people sing?_ **

**_Singing a song of angry men?_ **

 

They were back, sitting within the car when Henri started asking Scott about the case, and some questions about him. _35-minute ride will be overly boring and long._

 

"Who are you, really? Anthea just informed me that I needed to do some errands to Carles Pierre only to find her boss, Mycroft Holmes."

 

"I am William Scott." Sherlock answered looking at the sidereal view.

 

"How are you related to that man, to Mycroft Holmes? He told me that I'll just be babysitting an immature bloke. A week ago."

 

"Are you really that loquacious, Henrily? What do you think of him? I thought he is obtuse. A fat bloke who usually insists that he's smarter than his brother." Sherlock looked at Henri with his creasing forehead.

 

"Oh. You know I think of him as an upright man, honorable, a genius— I think? That is what Anthea had told me and she is indeed correct. Smart arse. Also, don't you think my sister would be good enough for _your brother_?" Henri asked.

 

"He's not my brother, not related by any means, merely work. And I don't consider Anthea taking a relationship with that man, she's with Lestrade. Also, he isn't the marrying type."

 

"Misogamist." He said under his breath. _"Whatever you say, green-eyed monster, Scott."_

 

Silence. One. Two. Three. Seconds.

 

"How did you know to where are we going— that it is a church?" Henri looked back at Scott and asked him.

 

"Simple. The crucifix, a church symbol. Book of Les Miserables, book 4? No. Volume 4, _The Idyll in the Rue Plumet and the Epic in the Rue St. Denis_ , the abode of Jean Valjean and Cosette. Such a shame you've never been patriotic over your country. Don't know Victor Hugo?"

###  **Have you been, Sherlock?**

 

"Whatever. But how is it— I mean, who is the murderer who will leave clues for the cops for them to come and get him? How could he be so careless, Scott?"

 

"The murderer, never went to the French chamber. All he went was to the laboratory. Indication of the murderer knew the whole property, the house. They know each other. And the victim knew that time would come near, so he did it... He knew that the man who will kill him loves the church, or the book?"

 

**_But the riddle to me was— what’s with those anatomical parts?_ **

 

Anatomy. Physiology. Pathology.

 

His head had drifted its way towards Molly.

 

He is sitting in a chair, whole place pitched black. His head leaning towards his clasped hands, a thinking gesture, as Mycroft sat in front of him, looking at him with his table and seat, identical with that of his office. The painting pasted at his back wall was not the same, rather a queen of England— _did he get a renovation_? The queen was looking at the audience—  them, wearing a 16th century type of clothing such as that of Elizabeth I, Queen of England, a royal Tudor.

 

He is not the marrying type either. He's sure that Molly Hooper will never be able to live with him—  all she knew was—he was _cool, intelligent and fit_ , and then she considered it love—   _love at first sight_?

 

**It is merely an infatuation.**

If not, he would never still consider the thought of him standing in a tuxedo with her in a white dress and a flower in hand enclosed in a picture, smiling. _In a picture_. He knew he will never be the picture perfect husband that a Molly Hooper, a sensible, cute and lovely lady would ever want. _Will she be happy? Will she still be willing to smile until the morning comes? Will she ever accept him?_

 

" _Sherlock you know better than that_." Mycroft spoke, as he stood above his seat and rolled his feet around Sherlock.

 

"Yes. Brother mine." I know Mycroft.

 

**_'For the sake of law and order, I suggest that you avoid all the future attempts at a relationship, Molly.'_ **

 

 _"Sherlock, elaborate why did you have the urge to tell her that?"_ Mycroft asked as he stopped his tracks and leaned down to his right side as he whispered— " ** _green-eyed monster_**." Then leaned back and strolled back to his seat, leaning back.

 

"For her protection." Sherlock looked at Mycroft.

 

His answer made Mycroft leaned forward and propped his elbows above his papers. " _Really? Or you are making her like you? Alone, Sherlock. Restrain herself like what are you to yourself?"_

 

"No. Mycroft. Not." Sherlock said as he nuzzled his palms, eyes closed. Smelled like Molly?

 

 _"Perhaps, you are manipulating the mouse?"_ Or she's manipulating you?

 

**'For my sake.'**

 

"Molly Hooper." He said as he closed his eyes, looking for answers.

 

 **"You look sad. When you think he can't see you."** The scene started to build up its place. In a lab, her lab, she stood at his right, while he looked down at the poor microscope. **"Don't just say you are. Because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."**

 

 _"You can see me."_ When he looked down, all he could see was the pitched black room, he bolted his head up seeing Mycroft, grinning devilishly.

 

_"Annoying. Poor Molly Hooper. Poor little doctor. Loving a man who'll never return her emotions."_

 

"Mycroft! Stop. Molly Hooper is..." **_What is she to you Sherlock?_**

 

**"I don't count. What I'm trying to say is, if there's anything that I can do— anything you need, anything at all— you can have me. No I just mean, I mean, if there's anything you need. It's fine."**

 

_"What could I need from you?"_

 

_Right Sherlock let her go. Just go, Molly. You'll never deserve anything bad, like me. All you deserve is the best, you've been good, so good...so maybe, letting go is the best thing I could do, for you. Sorry Molly Hooper._

 

 **"Caring is not an advantage."** Mycroft said.

 

"We're here, yet you're lost, William." Henri said as he opened his side of the door.

 

Scott opened his eyes, ejected himself out of the car's seat and firmly set himself in front of the Basilique de St. Denis.

 

"The book?" Henri gave him the book and turned the pages at the Volume Four looking for any highlighted texts, when Henri spoke to Sherlock. "What's next?"

 

"Maybe, let me in?" Scott said as he turned the book upside down.

 

"Sure. It will be an honor. Shall we, Monsieur Scott?" Henri encouraged him to make a move and stroll inside the Basilica. Scott clasped the book and hid it under his coat, roaming his head around, 180 degrees, eyes wide like an owl, deducing the five visitors that are praying and murmuring something; either kneeling or sitting, while keeping his friend near.

 

 **_A woman. Sixteen or eighteen,_ ** _looking like a youngster. Her hair tied, pony tailed— black, a Parisian. Looking at the arrangement of her clasped hands— right thumb above the left, a left-handed. Nails, neatly coated with yellow shade, no blood stains, clear._

 

 **_Sitting with the woman,_ ** _is her man, who is leaning his head against the woman's left shoulder, seemingly nuzzling... Aged twenty one to twenty three. Office worker? Pencil leads around the tips of his right finger indicates that he might be using pencils in his work, an Architect or Engineer? Not important. No. Important! Coat? Gone. Nope, it's hanging around the lady, to keep her warm. Gentleman? Clearly. Right handed. Possible motive— ??? Unknown. Not him. Unsuspicious movement, sleeping._

 

 **_Old lady. Sixty._ ** _Cannot kill. Inauspiciously old._

 

 **_A church man_ ** _... White. Nope. Too old. Can't even walk steadily._

                    

 **_A man. Standing from his seat._ ** _Walking out. Arrangement of fingers, right handed. Nails, washed? Been to the bathroom? No. Signs around his pants suggest none, no water or urine droplet. Torso, covered with his cardigan, a black one? **Approaching us.**_

 

"Monsieur? How would you translate this?" Scott, looking lost, asked the man and showed him the book of Les Miserables, with the French word.

 

The man held up his right hand. Washed but it smelled what— _Ferrous. Iron. Blood_. Suspect? Not yet. Maybe because of his wound. Yes he had his palm bandaged, How could he hold a scalpel if he can't even grip his hand? "It means 'Army'" he said. **Smell it, sweet, blackcurrant** _, what Pasqua Vigneti? No. That's cherry and black berry. Lagarino di Dionisio? No. Not a chance, it's Merlot..._

 

Think, Sherlock.

 

What Mycroft?

 

**_Sweet Molly loves to drink that. Crème de Cassis._ **

 

Eureka! Crème de Cassis, it is.

 

"Thank you, Monsieur?" Sherlock held out his right hand for a shake. Which the man took. **_With his right. Isn't it hurting?_**

 

"Augustus. August Knight."

 

"Thank you Mister Knight. _Germans must be loving France_." Then he left. Sherlock walked towards the vacated seat that the man had just left and checked it— seeing nothing.

 

"Hey Williams! Where have you been?" Henri approached him.

 

"Suspiciously useless." Scott muttered under his breath.

"Crème de Cassis."

 

"Oh! French loved that. You want some? I could show you which winery here showcases the best Cassis." Henri offered, lights lit up his eyes.

 

"No. The government official. He had a glass of Crème de Cassis, in his study— bottle, drained. However, his breath doesn’t smell like the Cassis."

 

"Ahh. Yes. Okay. I thought you're... Maybe, interested?" Henri said.

 

**_Sweet Molly loves it._ **

 

"Uhm. Yes please. Provide me a bottle; please pack it up for importing. Inform Anthea about the package and send it to Molly Hooper."

 

"Molly Hooper? _Mary_. William Scott's love interest?" Henri teased which earned a frown from Sherlock. "Anyways, I'd be willing to help you. _For love._ Emotionless bastard." He huddle his phone and dialed the service number for the winery and checked his order.

 

"Also, Henri, instruct Anthea not to put any initials on the card, or anything that might lead to her knowing it was from me."

 

"All right! Boss!"

 

 **Two knocks** and a twist at the doorknob, Mycroft looked at the figure that opened the door of his office.

 

"Good evening, sir. What shall we do with our Russian friend in France? She had offered her German friend. Might be helpful, what do you think? Shall we accept the offer?" Anthea asked her chief, her arms folded in her chest, though holding a stack of envelopes and folders for him, waiting for his signature.

 

"You do know my answer." Mycroft gestured his left hand towards his desk a signal for her to drop the files. "And once Sherlock had given you a package, please include a scarf and oranges; deliver it here in my office. You're dismissed." He said as he stroked his chin, turned his back at Anthea and looked at the portrait.

 

**_Presents from men must pay its virtue._ **

 

He looked at his phone, thinking. **Call? Message? What? Stare blankly** for five good minutes and turned his head back to check his laptop, and the tapped one of the CCTVs in Holford Street.

 

**What shall I do with you?**

                              

"Make it fast, Hen lee." Sherlock demanded while looking at the other man who is busy with his phone, fiddling messages to a series of contacts.

 

"Wait. Please. Wait." Henri said as he tried to type messages as fast as he could. On the other hand, Sherlock had noticed a card, _probably Augustus left it?_ Checking it, he saw this:

 

**AGATHA CHRISTIE.**

 

Agatha Christie? "Oi. Hensley, do you happen to know a person named Agatha Christie? Seemed familiar... I just don't know where." Sherlock inquired.

 

"Ohh. Agatha Christie... I dunno anyone here in Paris with that name. Not French. Scottish? You know we can check bookstores and shops, maybe ask them. They knew better in histories than detectives." Henri offered while laughing.

 

**Wait. Think Sherlock.**

 

**_Book. Christie. Detective. History. French._ **

 

"Wait. You're a genius. Henri. Do you have any idea of a bookstore named after _Hercule Poirot_?"

 

"Oh yes. Why?"

 

"A book from the novelist, Agatha Christie, a fictional detective whose favorite drink was Crème de Cassis, francophone yet Belgian -- and we are going after him."

 

Two chairs were leaning on the floor, a yellow light lit room, and a stack of books and maps all along-- roaming around the brown painted walls and foundations. A man sat on the seat, occupying the other was a woman-- yellow headed, blonde-haired woman.

 

"Gustus, let us turn our heads back, forget about the Professor. All he is dead, a dead man, corpse. So why waste our time over that highly dangerous virus sample?" The lady looked at Augustus with his face fastened against the foot of the seat.

 

"Why? Cindi, I never want these either, as much as I wanted to do that, with all your encouraging, I wouldn't." He stood from his seat directing himself, walking towards the books.

 

He hooked his hands towards the book entitled, "Murder in a Retrospect" and opened it revealing a scalpel shaped vacant figure and a small vial shaped body. He retired his weapon from his hand and tied it back against the book covers and pages, restraining it from the public viewing.

 

"Cindi-- you're working for whom?"

 

**"The British Government."**

 

"Sir I have received the message from Henri Guillory. And the package is here with the other requested items of yours. Enclosed there is a letter, a report. They had their lead." Anthea spoke as she left the package above her _chair's_ desk who had his eyes glued at the laptop. "I believe, I must go."

 

"Oh yes. If you may, retire for the evening-- better explain your point to Gregory, and report for tomorrow at eight in the morning. Good eve." Mycroft said, never leaving the monitor.

 

"Oh-Okay, Sir? Are you alright? You need not say Good eve--that is not so of you. And Molly Hooper must be waiting for this package." Anthea said as she crooked her brows at Mycroft who bolted his head upright and looked at his assistant.

 

"Oh. _The captive has found its asylum._ Last thing before you go, kindly retrieve my brolly, together with Doctor Hooper's personal belongings. Inform the driver whenever you are ready." Mycroft said as he looked back at the CCTV footage from the post in front of a house, a flat, peeking through its open windows.

 

 **The street owes** its name to John Groulebarbe, a mill-owner back in 1214. It was nearly at the corner of the street and the Corvisart, and was separated by the Payen Bievre. This was the street where the Ulbach case was committed.

**Rue de Croulebarbe.**

 

"Where are we going, Hensley?" Scott asked as Henri drove his car around the Basilica.

 

"We're going to the 13th Arrondissement of Paris. We're going after Hercule Poirot, aren't we?" Henri smiled looking at the streets as he twirl the wheel around, gripping, as they wander around the Rue de Cygne and Boulangerie for a twenty-five minute ride to...

 

"What's the name of the street, years ago?" Scott asked, for he knew each street in France had their own history-- and the street's name might be useful, _or a clue?_

 

"Rue de Croulebarbe." He heard Henri hit the notes as he closed his eyes.

 

He must have read it somewhere, no. Heard it somewhere? From someone. Precisely.

 

" _Who told you that?"_

 

Molly Hooper? Why would you be here with me? I do not **need to have a distraction.**

 

"Mycroft. It is Mycroft." Molly whispered in his ear while she leaned down covering him and his seat as she disappeared into the dust.

 

 **Think. Mycroft.** Ah.

 

Sherlock held his temples as he tried to think about his previous encounter with Mycroft back when either they're old or too young.

 

_"It is where the Shepherdess of Ivry was killed. A crime of passion that led to the Parisians to Revolutionize." He heard Mycroft's voice as he clutched his book. What's the book?_

 

"Les Miserables."

 

**_It is the music of the people who will not be slaves again!_ **

****

**Shepherdess of Ivry.**

 

"Scott! Get your feet out of there! We're going in-- _Livres d'Hercule_! Here we go." Henri got up excitingly looking at the bookstore, like a kid who had first seen his favorite play car or his idol, _who isn't actually an idol_.

 

Livres d'Hercule? Books of Hercule. Poirot. Really that obvious?

 

The walked towards the open doors, revealing a classy styled bookstore. Books were cased in a maple shade of lustrous coating, walls are paneled with wooden brown colors, and the floor tiled with obsidians.

 

"Um. Excusez-nous, mais s'il vous plaît parler avec le propriétaire?17" Henri asked the lady who's standing in the counter, hair was long, yet ponytailed, blonde shade from the follicles-- not dyed. Sherlock tried to walk around with his hands on his back, looking up, memorizing each piece of lighting that the bookstore possesses, and how the books are arranged.

 

"Je suis le propriétaire, sir. N ' Importe Quel problème?18" The lady answered.

 

"No Madame. Il n'y a pas de problème. Je crois19." Henri answered as he looked for Scott who seemed to be wandering around the halls.

 

"Вы Российской20?" Scott asked as tried his best to speak Russian.

 

"Что? О, да21." The lady answered confirming that she was indeed a Russian national.

 

"How would you know that she is?" Henri asked quizzed.

 

"And I believe, you could also understand English?" Scott said.

 

"Yes." _Very well._

 

"Hey. William, how did you know?" Henri asked like a kid.

 

"We could look at the back part of her store, there hanged a Russian flag. Points might be she is just an affectionate fan of the country, an aficionado; however, dictionaries around it would prove that she's been reading the language ever since, right, Cindi Romanoff?"

 

"Good. Very good." Saying it the same way as John Watson did.

 

"Thank you John." He said as he nodded.

 

"John? Where did that come from?" Henri asked.

 

"Isn't your name John Henri?" Sherlock asked.

 

"No. Oh. Sorry."

 

"Cindi. You're amazing. How did you come up with the name, Hercule?" Scott looked at Cindi with his eyes piercing blue towards the lady's green ones.

 

"My friend, loves the works of Agatha Christie, he loves Poirot. He was my business partner."

 

_"A Murder in Retrospect?"_

 

"Yes. He loves that so much."

 

"Oh. I see." Sherlock scoot her locks that are falling from her face and tucked it against her ears, when Henri's phone rang and he read the message. A second after, Cindi's phone beeped, an image flashed saying:

 

**_Huguenot against Catholic League, here we stand, together. A battle that will change forever. Meet us where Henry IV won. When the heavens open, and the night says adieu, we will talk about your knight._ **

 

"Enough of flirting, Monsieur Scott. We got a lot to do." He said as he dragged Scott out of the bookstore.

 

"Stop Hensley, I'm not a kid." Sherlock said as he cleared his arm from Henri's grip.

 

"Oh yes, you are William. So let's go to Ivry-le-Temple, there's another murder. And the man left something for us to check."

 

**_Shepherdess of Ivry._ **

**_The Battle of Ivry._ **

 

"Guildford, where did the Battle of Ivry happened?"

 

"Scott. It's the Ivry-la-Battaile. Why?" Henri asked as he yawn his breath in the front seat.

 

"I'll be out tomorrow morning." He answered, his eyes firmly established towards his phone.

 

"Why? Meeting someone? Oh. That lady."

 

"Yes. Please arrange a lab for me. I need a computer and a Prior ZoomMaster 65. I'll check _some DNA samples_. Tonight."

 

"William. It's already 10:00! And we're driving to the Ivry for an hour and ten minutes. There won’t be any laboratories open by midnight!" Scott offered him the look of you-know-what-I'm-thinking.

 

"Fine." Henri and shrugged his shoulders.

 

"Right. What's the use of your surname Guillory, if you can't prove it?"

 

Doctor Hooper was sleeping soundly when all her dreams were being cut off by a sudden noise that seemed to be needing her attention. She draw herself towards her pink dressing gown and walked out of her room's door only to be surprised by a figure.

 

The dark red headed man walked towards the other, a lady, and punched her with his fist, a blade stood visible within his clutched hands, and twisted the key around its hole, which cut through her duodenum. **_You will be dead._**

 

"That's what you get for being a traitor." He smiled as he walked away from the body of spurts and flows of blood from each entrances and exits her body has.

 

The woman had used all her energy to text her friend and leave her a note:

 

**BQARWAEWRDINWRRJOM**

**-LES MISERABLES BY VICTOR-MARIE HUGO.**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I encourage you to post comments and hit kudos. Thank you for appreciating!
> 
>  
> 
> I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THESE:  
> Les-Miserables- it's Victor Hugo's  
> Murder in Retrospect and Hercule Poirot- Agatha Christie's
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> 1\. Welcome to Paris!  
> 2\. Thank you  
> 3\. Will you speak English for me? I know that you can.  
> 4\. Yes  
> 5\. Go fuck yourself  
> 6\. Forgive me Lord, for what shall I do.  
> 7\. I doubt that  
> 8\. Fuck off  
> 9\. Kid, you are, indeed. He is never wrong.  
> 10\. Did Moriarty need it?  
> 11\. Yes. He might be dead. The start line has been cut, yet the end isn't near. We must continue what the Professor had left undone.  
> 12\. I'll do it, the hard way. Sorry  
> 13\. Detective Inspector Guillory. One member of the jury, Mr. Jacques LeBlanc found dead this afternoon. Estimated time of death, 4:50PM.  
> 14\. Mr. Lamarck, check his room. Report to me if you've seen different things eccentrically.  
> 15\. Go away young man. We required privacy.  
> 16\. Arranged from the genitals, kidneys, intestines, stomach, lungs and heart, no brain included but there is a vacant stand, something must be there, Sir… Oh yes sir. On the other chamber, some of the French flags were not suspended, and there is a flag, in which has something inside it, a crucifix. And the other is a book, must be a novel. I cannot read the writings, Sir. purely English.  
> 17\. Excuse us, but may we speak to the owner?  
> 18\. I am the owner, sir. Is there a problem?  
> 19\. No Madame, there’s no problem. I think.  
> 20\. Are you a Russian?  
> 21\. What? Oh yes.
> 
>  
> 
> Shall we play a game?  
> I want you to think of the possible things that might happen next, in accordance with the clues given.  
> Then hit the 'COMMENT' to post it...
> 
> Clues are somewhat hidden...like some of them were posted at the 'summary' or at the end? (Well, they are not hidden anymore.)
> 
> but don't forget to leave kudos. :)


	5. The Warhorses Of Ivry II: The Green-Patterned Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the mistress of the sea, yet the beginning of an adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still un-BETAd. The longest one, I suppose?

" _Bonne soirée détective-inspecteur Guillory, je suis Pierre Fontaine, de la Police Department d'Ivry-le-Temple, heureux de vous rencontrer_." The man wearing a gendarme, dark blue undercoat, uniform walked towards Henri and offered his hand for a shake. (Good Evening DI Guillory, I am Pierre Fontaine, from the Police Department of Ivry-le-Temple, pleased to meet you.)

 

Sherlock _(Scott)_ and Henri had made their way within the Ivry-le-Temple department, and had drove to Rue des Jardins, inside a country house, only to discover something… a suicide. The gendarmerie had gathered around the body of a man who had drunken a poison based on the statement taken from his family member that occupies the house with him.

 

"Oh oui Detective-inspector Fontaine, d ' un plaisir à rencontrez vous. c ' est William Scott mon apprentissage." Henri introduced Scott, who smiled as he held out his right hand to the man who had dark leathered gloves that covered his whole phalanges up to his carpal. _What a pleasure to meet you…_

 

"Ahh. Scott ? Un anglais ?" The man asked who had stood his body like a mountain across Scott's features, though he is only a six-footer, same as his, yet he had managed to stick out his chin, harshly and stiffly, and predominated Scott, appearing like a grotesque old man. He had his brown orbs piercing like the hawk's against the cold, yet calm ocean of the East, who himself never falter. _Isn’t it obvious? An Englishman._

 

"Yes." Scott answered his question as he shook his hands deflecting the heat arising.

 

" _Um. Si vous nous excuserez. ... Peut-être, vous voudrais pour vérifier le corps pour l ' umpteenth heure_?" Henri asked clearing and cutting the barriers that suddenly being founded and built within them, then grasp Scott's forearm, leading them to a voided space leaning at the corner, far from the arrogant man's aura. (If you’ll excuse us… Perhaps, you would like to check the body for the umpteenth time?)

 

"William. Don't try to deduce or whatever you are going to do...just don't do it in front of him." Henri said, keeping his voice low as he looked at Scott who had been nipping with his lower lip. **_Picture them as a father scolding his son...a weird version of the commons._**

 

"Well then. He is an ex-convict, based on the tattoo 26 written at the back of his neck, quite concealed because of his jet-black hair, and I believe he had also the two of them hidden underneath his heavy clothes, one at his right hand, between his thumb and index, and in his belly. **_Afraid to die_**? Might be— he's wearing a bulletproof vest, adding at least five inches of his body width, because of the obvious difference between his body and neck, not proportional." **_What else?_** "Wearing a Larouche perfume? Yes, atrociously too strong. And been eating the same food for the whole day, Shawarma, too much chili he should consider adding more pepper— or… Oh! he's having his halitosis? Obviously, he is...been brushing his _dentures_ nine times a day, and I believe he had brushed it 10 minutes ago, see his coat—toothpaste lathers were on the sleeves edges, quite new, slightly damped. Annoying bloody officer, who had been convicted of stealing? Pardoned by your government. Wearing plain contact lenses— ranging from 145-200. And I'm quite eager to know how does it feel to punch his plastic-surgeried nose, I presume it has a silicone." Scott said while stomping his feet, and his arms enveloped in his chest.

 

"Don't do that." Henri said as he looked at his eyes.

 

"Why? Stop me?" Scott's eyes crooked and pursed his lips at the vision he's having.

 

"Yes. I'll stop your silly antics."

 

"Ohh. But how?" Henri turned his back at Scott, defeated, and said, "Just keep them in your mind." **_You are thinking too garrulously._**

 

"And Scott. Shut your bloody mouth up." He added, as he walked towards the other officer who was checking the body for, estimated, less than 10 times.

 

"Now there are three little pigs, and a wolf." Scott muttered as he walked back to the scene.

 

**The wolf that blows the wind.**

                            

" _Alors, DI Fontaine, qu'avons-nous ici_ ?" Henri asked the gendarme from the Ivry-le-Temple. (So, DI Fontaine, where are we?)

 

" _Un homme. Nous avons cru que c'était un suicide, les wife a dit elle aussi. Une inspection plus approfondie sur le corps est le processus_." He answered looking at the corpse. (A man. We believed that it was a suicide, the wife said it also. Further inspection on the body is on process.)

 

" _Bien puis il sir. est l ' enquête qui dit précédent l ' victime a été poisoned_?" Henri inquired as he looked back at the gendarme for an affirmation. (Well then sir. Is it the previous investigation that said the victim was poisoned?)

 

" _Oui, il s ' agit d '; cependant, nous voudrais pour vérifier à nouveau avant d ' manipulation des elle le corps pour l ' autopsy_." (Yes, it is, however, we would like to check it again before handling the body for autopsy.) The man affirmed, and looked at Scott asking, " _Quel est votre but_ ?" **What's your purpose Sherlock** , _if you're not allowed to speak?_

" _Oh monsieur, il 's mon adjoint, je crois que vous n ' ont pas d ' droits de l ' à la question Qu ' Il lui. en vertu de toute 's pas de votre surveillance."_ (Oh, monsieur, he’s my assistant. I believe, you have no rights to question him. He’s not under any of your supervision.) Henri made his way as he held both upper arms of the man, and shifted his attention— trying to start a conversation, for Scott to examine the body yet he turned his head to Scott and shouted, " **Murmur. It's a murder. Crème de Cassis** ," then turned back to the Inspecteur-détective.

 

**_Don't talk out loud. Just murmur._ **

 

**_It's not a suicide. It's a murder._ **

 

_A murder?_

 

**_Yes. Crème de Cassis._ **

 

**Bull's-eye.**

 

Scott looked down and checked the body, looming at it for details with his glasses.

_'Not a Frenchman, nose formation, quite steep...um, mandible and maxilla—very visible, he's too skinny, unbalanced diet? No. Barely eats, like me, **yes**. Probably, from Caribbean? Caucasian, though a farmer,' _ he flipped the sleeves, _'tan-lines, proof— living near a farm, obviously, a peasant? **Nope.** Hands were not much calloused, except for his right mitt which is his dominant extremity, both not used in household and working chores, merely helping... **but why is he here**?'_

 

Scott rotated around his exact place, to inspect the room, checking any sign that might be a clue, or the answer itself.

 

 _'Wallpaper paneled room, of blue and brown vertical stripes, panel woods were brown'_ he walked towards it and knock at it _—'ply board? **Useless.** What else?' _ He looked up from his ducked position _, 'Messy...too messy, too masculine. Luggage? Arranged yet disorganized at the corners... This man will be staying for a long time, I suppose?'_ He got up on his feet and walked back at the man carelessly lying at the wooden floor checking him once again.

 

**_Poisoned. By who?_ **

 

_Clearly, it's not suicide, no bottles of meds, not drugged, no Opium or what— the room is cleared. Bloody, it might be…someone has been here._

 

"Henri, can I speak with you, and that annoying depleted-brain bugger?" Translate my words.

  

"Depleted? Why? He's not that much—"

 

"Oh yes. He is. From the Latin word _depletus_ , which means empty." After hearing that word, Henri shared a chortle with Scott as he kept his head bowed down, ensuring that his company would be oblivious about it.

 

"Yes, yes. Wait." He turned his head back, serious, to Fontaine, " _Fontaine, mon ami voudrais talk à nous à propos de l ' corpse, serait vous_?" (Fontaine, my friend would like to talk to us about the corpse, would you?)

 

" _Oh oui. Réprimer tout trempe l'idiot, je pourrais l'étrangler_." Fontaine made his voice projectable for Scott to hear him clearly. **_Strangle me, idiot_**? (Oh yes, just repress the idiot’s temper, I might strangle him.)

 

The two walked towards Scott's spot as he kept talking, "The corpse's not yet identified?"

 

"He's positively identified by his wife as Josh Andrew Phillips." Henri answered as he looked at Scott with his smile beaming.

 

"Wife? I thought he's single... I mean, his ring finger, no tan line or any markings that would testify that he's married. Look at this room— good for one person." He said as he point his hands towards the bed, "bed's too restricted to let a couple sleep on it. Baggage, for one occupant only. Check the cabinets, pure manly. The room itself is quite disheveled, masculine indeed. Must be his neurogliacytes depleting. Completely useless right and left hemispheres." Scott said yet mumbled the last words for Henri to hear, who's been chortling.

 

" _Que fait-il dire_ Henri ?" Fontaine asked him quizzically. (What is he saying, Henri?)

 

 ** _'That you are a bloody asshole officer.'_** Henri thought as he looked at Scott, knowingly.

 

" _Mon mister mauvais, mais il parle de la femme... Il n'y a pas d'épouse et si vous le pouviez, amener ici pour y être interrogés? Merci_." Henri let out his proper words of manners to dismiss the man, who pierced his eyes at Scott's direction, and walked away. ( My bad mister, but he’s talking about the wife… There’s no wife, and if you could bring her here for interrogation? Thank you.)

 

"Nice move."

 

"Nice deductions you have."

 

"Enough of foolishness. Why are we here, really?"

 

**_Crème de Cassis?_ **

 

"I just thought that we must be here. Sounds a good reason?" Henri looked at Scott who's taking pictures at the crime scene, the victim, the room in general, the luggage and the bed.

 

"Sounds bearable. Maybe I'd ask you if that's utile. Why Crème de Cassis? May I know for a good reason?" He asked as he looked at Henri, stopping his tracks.

 

"Ahh. Trivial mistake? Slip of the tongue. I think." Henri smiled.

 

"Nope. I don't think so." Scott looked back at his phone and dialed a number.

 

"Think whatever you want to. Call your brother's landline, though your Mom would never bother." Henri said as he skimmed his nails.

 

**What?**

 

_Your Mom would never bother._

 

**Mummy is anywhere near Mycroft.**

 

Scott stopped and hanged the line, then hid his phone back on his pocket. "Well. Why so sudden? I believe you do know." **_This is a change of game._**

 

"So sudden? Not so. I was actually late." Henri said grinning and concealed his hands inside his undercoat.

 

"Oh. I see. **_Welcome to the game_** , Henri Guillory." Scott offered his hands.

 

"Though I believe I've been playing since the whole evening. But I'm never like my sister. Though, I have purposely done it to test you, of course; _the man told me to_." He accepted the hands, which buckled through the crisp of his knuckles.

****

**_This is a change._ **

 

"Yes. It is Crème de Cassis , you think?" Scott asked as he clutched Henri's phalanges. **_Does it hurt?_**

 

"Ouch. That's too much pressure Scott. Loosen up!" He answered as he shoved the grip with his left mitt.

 

"My question Henri." **Answer me**.

 

"I thought you're a good observer, you're merely a spectator, though you just missed a point, yet it is the turning point of this crime." Henri crooked his brow and grinned devilishly, "When we got in." **_Not a suicide... It is a murder._**

 

**When we got in.**

 

Henri closed his eyes, as he pliantly placed his right hand against Scott's, who still had his grip on his manus. After an inspiration, he let out a suspire of air, then look at his eyes, perforating Scott's walls, drifting him to a place—

 

**—when they got in.**

 

"A bottle was neglected. Hidden near the bushes, at the entrance's fence, I'm quite surprised that you neither knew it nor observed the patterns." Henri said as he walked around the house's entrance where his and Scott's body has been suspended, he showed the bottle, revealing it from the fences, with bits of soil at the base.

 

"Patterns?" Scott asked puzzled.

 

"Yes William, patterns. Shall I count from one to five?"

 

"Counting? So you're saying I'm a kid?" Scott walked near Henri who was leaning at the door's handle with the bottle in his grip.

 

"Very good observation, Mister Scott. Indeed you are. We all are — currently a kid, all of we, in a nursery. I thought you know Christie? Barely observing, rather spectating." Henri said as he let his hand slip the bottle of Crème de Cassis, making a noise of shards, radiating around the room, drawing them back to the present realm— where Henri is leaning back at his previous position, and Scott who had his body turned away looking at a glass— where Henri's reflection is visible.

 

A kid.

 

"I'm not a kid."

 

"Then prove it. The evidence has been destroyed. Look back at that place. It's a pattern." Henri smiled and had his body stiffened as he looked at the body, though Scott's been walking away. "Poor young man, pure obscure."

 

Scott got his feet looking for the bottle, only to find a dark fabric covering the ground. He flipped it, revealing shards of a black bottle with a sweet smell... The evidence is destroyed.

 

"No. Not yet Sherlock."

 

"Molly?" She made her way from her lab. Wait lab? Yes. The two of them were in the laboratory at St. Bart's.

 

"Sherlock, let me do that.. So you can check the samples left." She said as she damped the cloth at the chemical.

 

"What? Why?"

 

"For it to trap the dissipating liquid and moisture, absorption." Molly said as she walked out of the doors, and Scott was back at the entrance of the country house.

 

 

Prove it.

 

Scott uncovered the whole domain, and tucked the cloth with some shards and the cork, carefully avoiding his fingertips from getting any contact with the evidence, then he started getting his feet firmly and walked back to his friend.

 

"Hensley, here it is." He said as he shoved it at the resealable plastic bag placed atop of the desk inside the living area of the country house.

 

And here she is.

 

 _'A woman in her mid-thirties, with burgundy-colored hair, arranged in bun. Cobalt orbs, academically inclined, American. **Peasant?** No, not really, skin color's crème_ — _no tan lines to prove that she's getting direct ultraviolet contact. **Possible jobs?** **Considering her wellness,** **office?** Nope, lazy femme. **Married?** Obviously, a ring; so she must be the so-called wife?'_

 

"Oh. Are you done Scott?" Henri asked turning his neck towards Scott’s position who had the plastic seal on his left and the body on his right, bearing most of the weight.

 

"Yes. So she must be the so-called wife. Have I missed anything?" He answered the grinning man.

 

"Yes—the whole picture, though she is indeed the wife." Henri spoke as he chuckle, then added, "Maybe you do want to know how? Shall we?" Interrogate her.

 

∞Ӂ∞

 

What?

 

"Yes. Sherlock, you have missed the whole picture." A man stood, like a mighty man of virtues in a three-piece suit of charcoal and red tie, with a cream-colored dress shirt under his concealed waistcoat, in the threshold of the St. Bart's Hospital. The place was somewhat familiar to Sherlock, the streets that leaned down from the foundations of the infrastructure, the small boundary of fences made up of flattened cement, and the one-manned wooden door that connects the Hospital from the rooftop, everything's so natural.

 

Déjà vu.

 

The fall.

 

"Mycroft?" He asked walking at the framework of a man standing in the edges.

 

"Yes, dear baby brother. Neither of your assumptions are correct." Mycroft said as he rotated through his feet, 180 degrees, ending, face-to-face with Sherlock, with his smile, sinister.

 

"Why Myc? All you have is bragging that, 'Sherlock, I AM the smart one' so what do you say now? That I missed something because I am not the smart one? Go to bed* Mycroft." Sherlock mocked changing various gamut of tones, annoying Mycroft.

 

"I am the smart one, Sherlock"

 

"Oh you see. I never missed something."

 

"Well you do." Mycroft uttered as Sherlock closed his eyes when they had altered places, reciprocally. Now, Sherlock was the one standing at the edge, holding for his dear life as he looked at Mycroft who had his previous spot.

 

"You missed something. A tiny piece of steel, a link that will colligate the two details of this story, though not the whole, itself." Mycroft spoke with his hands roaming in the air, obviously because his brolly is absent.

 

"This isn't the whole?" Sherlock asked looking at his brother with his forehead creased.

 

"Sherlock, baby brother, we go in details. Have you seen my brolly?" Mycroft said walking towards Sherlock, who is still standing at the edge with the air whistling and zipping through the vacant stares.

 

"Oh, I thought it must be with me. Maybe someone had it...or someone hid it in their encephalon." Mycroft said as he turned his head, looking though his body's still.

 

"You're getting old." Sherlock said smiling, silly kid.

 

"And it's getting cold." Mycroft walked towards Sherlock, his height completely dominating the others. After a few exchanges of glances, Mycroft reached his right hand and pointed at Sherlock's chest part where his heart lays, and pushed him to rest back down the pavement. Sherlock looked up, with his face horridly amazed, when Mycroft's face morphed into Moriarty's face laughing, a fox, then disappeared out of heavenly sight— he, himself still falling down, down into abyss.

 

"Scott." Henri said as he rushed towards the gaping figure of the man.

 

"Oh..Mycro. Bl—why?" Scott blundered as he snapped himself out of his reverie.

 

"I said, we better start interrogating. It's getting midnight."

 

Scott had only answered with his nod, his feeling uneasy.

 

∞Ӂ∞

 

"So, Madame? May we know your name?" Sherlock asked as he took the seat opposing the lady's who had looked intently at him.

 

"Marie Claire Phillipss, sir. I am the wife of the victim." She said as a hot drop of water from her duct rushed down, leaning back at her seat with her hands clutching the lower exposed garment of her dress. "He. He. Bought something... I don't know. Why does he have to die, this time?"

 

"Why, Madame?" Henri asked looking at the lady, giving a sympathetic stare.

 

"He's not your husband." Scott said rolling his eyes.

 

"He is, Scott." Henri said as the lady nodded, then Scott closed his eyes, his left legs dominating his right, as he leaned back and gesturing his hands, touching both indexes as his other fingers clasped, forming "the church".

 

"She is the wife, William." Henri appeared at his pictured dimension of the room, in which the woman was frozen with her eyes open, and tears ice cold stone from her duct.

 

How can you say so?

 

"Perhaps you missed something important on the body." Henri walked with a smirk towards the door of the victim's room.

 

Don't tell me, Mycroft's right again?

 

"As you can see... It seems that he is." Henri said as their surroundings had changed into something from his Mind Palace.

 

The man was now settled at the vacant sofa across Sherlock's chair while there are two figures— obstructing his view of his companion's smirk. It was a play, his play, recorded and saved at his storage, which is depicted as a young plumped tiddler with a much older man, conversing.

 

The tike with small curls was wearing his favorite, the usual plain rouge-colored jumper over his white dress shirt, desirably fitted with his body shape, and a trousers of burnt umber paired up with his black laced up shoes. He was looking upward at the man's direction. The man, _the older character he had played_ , was wearing his achromatic, grey-colored shirt, fastened and folded up to his cubitus as his two chest buttons were undone, revealing his slightly visible anterior thorax's hairs. The bloke had his lower half covered with his black trousers and shoes polished of coal, when the floor began playing.

 

"Shall we play a game, brother dear?" The older man leaned down, leveling himself down, as he crossed his gaze at the younger one.

 

"What is it?" The young bloke asked, with his eyes blooming with light and sparks— This will never be boring.

 

"May I know if you have acknowledged the rarity of father's band at his annualry?"

 

 

"Is he? Might be forgotten it at the restroom?"

 

"Nope. Wrong move." The man stood, predominating his silhouette from the tiddler. "If that's the case, then anyone can see it, anyone can return it back to the lost and found. However, that's not the case." He said as he traverse with his back at the younger.

 

"Then he must hid it somewhere, invisible or unobvious."

 

"Yes."

 

"But where?" The kid asked the man who had twisted his body directly towards him.

 

"Somewhere close to him, somewhere he knows that only him could find. The unusually usual place for hiding bonds ." The man answered as he walked back towards the kid who looked up from his height.

 

"But why?"

 

"Find out, brother mine." He leaned down and whispered notes in his head as the time stopped, ineffectively hearing the man's last words.

 

 

Prove yourself.

 

"The brolly. The ring. Relate them Scott." Henri said as he stood from the sofa and walked towards the Scott's seat, patting his shoulders. "They are patterns, what is left must be done." Then he was gone, as the environment turned pitched black.

 

Relate them.

 

Mycroft's gamp is like his better half. And so as the ring? Sign of marriage, matrimony, union, to the commons.

 

Didn't I say hidden?

 

Perhaps hidden. But where? Find out William. Your kin. Your memories, your encephalon.

 

My family. Father... Where did he hide it? Must be same as the victim.

 

Somewhere near him. Somewhere only him could know and find. An unusually usual place.

 

Scott pondered at the previous thought of something must be near... It's cold in here, the heart. Mycroft's previous encounter's dress shirt, unfastened first two buttons, to reveal his neck, his thorax; father once hid his ring there, as a pendant of his silvery chain held it in place. Must be.

 

Scott opened his eyes and looked at Henri who's talking with Madame Phillips. "At the neck. Come Henri." He said as he stood and walked towards the opened door, with Henri biding sorry and followed suit, and check the victim's neck, revealing an invisible lines of unbalanced colored skin, only seen with his pocket magnifier.

 

Bull's-eye.

 

"He's married but where might be the ring? Though I believe your husband was hiding it under his shirt. And Henri where's the idiot? Won't they'd be delivering this corpse for autopsy?" He asked as he stood looking at the lady.

 

"No pathologist would want to get involve at this time of the night." Henri said slouching.

 

"And _thank you_." Scott said turning towards Henri smiling.

 

"Not at all. I presumed you already know the motive why?" Henri said looking directly at his face, then added, " _Everything goes in details. We do_."

 

His motive.

 

It's getting cold in there.

 

The time rolls as Scott hold his temples with his both hands that are formerly arranged in a church.

 

"When people fall in love, they marry, don't they?" The young Sherlock asked his brother as he sat with him at the edge of a rock while fishing.

 

"A common misconception."

 

"Then why on earth Victor Hugo had to create Marius and have Cosette marry him, they did fall in love, if they could just stay engaged, they're mutually beneficial, aren't they?" He protested.

"Same as a man who is willing to marry his country." Sherlock added.

 

"Perhaps it is. But to _a man having an affair, not really_. Then a man must also marry his mistress, then? Not really, Sherlock."

 

"What?" Sherlock asked, with his face an exquisite spectacle for the viewers.

 

"Must one know anything better than that who one thinks know nothing?" Mycroft said as his bait has been pulled by an emphatic force hidden under the folds of the waters, as he started opposing, giving the same intensity against his pole then said, "this must be a big fish."

 

 

"Father?" The young him walked towards the closed door that he believed that his father had been occupying since someone had rang their bell. He then opened the wooden door of two inches revealing a man being kissed by a woman, furiously, he then said, "Father, who's this?"

 

The woman stopped from her tracks, which made her hands flew down to her sides that are previously being draped around the older man's shoulders and neck, while her lips swollen from all the bites and magic that their lips had made acrobatically.

 

"Son! She's ugh... Just an old friend."

 

"You never mentioned that you have a cute son here living with you." The mistress said adulterously as she touched Sherlock's right shoulder.

 

"Don't touch me, you flirty filthy woman." He said as he hit the mistress's hand from his shoulder and looked at his father. "Father, where's your ring?" He asked then looked back at the woman, "didn't he also mention that he has a family, and you're all an adulterer. I must say not, with all your shocked expression exposed down your wriggling fingers, though you must be aroused." Sherlock said with full anger as he stomped down the lady's foot.

 

"Ouch, you young bastard! Your mother never did teach you all any better." She said as she scooted down towards her aching toes, distracting her from the Holmes. Sherlock then gripped his father's arm and walked themselves far from the human form of the 17th century courtesans.

 

"Father, tell me why?" As Sherlock said it his father's features froze as his surroundings turned into dust of winter leading him back to Henri.

 

It's getting cold in here.

 

"Your husband does have an affair. Any reason for separating your quarters?" Scott asked as he looked at the lady.

 

"Yes, I know he has an affair with the woman...We just visited the place for his project. He's a painter." _Visited the place, for how long, really?_

 

"Woman?" Henri asked.

 

"Yes, his model... That Putain. Cette maîtresse. How dare he try to keep that under wraps?" She answered. (whore. That mistress.)

 

"May we know who the lady is?"

 

∞Ӂ∞

 

"Toby? What have you done?" Molly asked as she rushed forward, towards Toby's purring paces. The lampshade that she had kept at the coffee table had flew itself down the wooden furnished floor of her flat, bulb broken.

 

Toby answered her inquiry with a series of purr and walked under the refrigerator, quite asking for something.

 

"My baby's hungry." Molly muttered walking at her refrigerator as her stomach grumbled back... You're hungry, Molly. Maybe make something, a dinner for yourselves. She then opened its doors, showing a fully stocked frozen room of foods. Checking the freezer for a frozen meat or chicken, she gasped as she saw a gingerly-shaped fingers of a man, a surprise from the idiot. Better make him also a food. (7:00PM, London)

 

The little woman brought her cute little pink bib-styled apron, with pockets patterned in lime green and an embroidered "I am a cat person" at the chest portion, around her neck and tied it at her back, hugging her figure closely, protecting her from stains.

 

Looking at the kitchen island, where her appliances lie, she began producing her ingredients from her refrigerator and kitchen dressers, and arranging them in a procedural patterns. After a while of preparation, she had now started cutting the half chicken into pieces, creating four parts, and deboned them.

 

∞Ӂ∞

 

"I think the name's Sofia." The lady answered as she looked at her husband's bluish body.

 

"Any surnames you have heard?" Henri asked.

 

"No... There must be a picture of her in his wallet, bag, or one of his canvases... He's a painter, and she's his model. Must be upstairs, to the studio." Sherlock said.

 

"Yes. The studio's upstairs." Lady Phillips answered.

 

"Then, must you accompany us." Henri uttered.

 

"Thank you, Henri, for stating the obvious. Shall we then?" Scott said, offering his left hand, gesturing for the lady to comply.

 

Mme. Phillips had walked and toured them to her husband's studio, finding different palettes of various wood boards, with a wide range of color mixtures of rainbow suspended in its body. Palette knives stuck at the canvass boards of unfinished artworks, different weights of paintbrushes imbued with alcohols and diluting agents, three vacant stands for canvasses erected in a half circle formation, acrylics, oils and poster paints dribbled at different spaces of the floor and a simple kitchen stool for the painter were all present at the scene. The whole paneled room was furnished with a tan-colored wallpapers, embedded with an ivory wood; also, the floor with a rectangular sheet of woods. No embellishments present with it, except for the jade rayon-made curtains that concealed the sunrays from the only widely exposed windows of a 3x1 glass pane

 

Scott coughed upon breathing the air inside the room, then produced a sickening sound , "How foul could an amateur artist create? His must be disgusting, reason why he was killed. Too boring, mustn't be his mistress grow tired of his business?"

 

The lady switched on the lights, giving a clear view of the distasteful place for a sexual encounter, then uttered, "What?"

 

"Oh nevermind, I was just heeding the view. And I must say, this is not bad." Too bad.

 

"Oh. Thank you, Josh might be glad, if he had heard that complement of yours Monsieur Scott." She said as she walked towards the stack of canvasses, disorganized.

 

"Yes. He must be, it's a pleasure." Scott said looking at Henri who was laughing in hushed sound, though he was focused on how the place do smell, as his nostrils flew a bit bigger.

 

"Hey, if you don't mind me injecting at your friendly chit-chat, I would like to ask you how often does your husband occupy this?" Henri said, looking at the lady with his arms crossed, and inspecting.

 

"Twice a week." She answered as she dug down the cloths.

 

"Thank you Mademoiselle."

 

"Hey Scott, do you smell something?" Henri murmured at Scott.

 

Scott got himself alerted by Henri's words, and immediately tried to deduce things.

 

"Oh thank you Henri, I almost forgot, perhaps, I could make up?" Scott made his chest popped as he slightly hid his face under his undercoat's collar which now stood, dominantly shadowing his edgy features; then, he gestured for his left hand in a gentlemanly manner as if a man is asking for a lady's hand for a waltz or a minuet dance in a ball.

 

"Perhaps?" Molly said as she held the casserole in a tight grip from her soapy and sticky hands from the chicken being cut and deboned into pieces of edible shapes for her French dish that she knew the arrogant man would love, though she's very much aware of her hatred at his previous words— hours ago, she could still not bear to leave his ego astray... For she knows that he needed her more than anything, given his bloody circumstance. And she needed him? No, not really, yet she loved him, greater than the sun's rays; she wanted to be of help, useful... She mattered, did she? "He will love this meal, right Toby?" She added as her cat purred twice, with its tail high as a her patella, and scratched its dear whiskers at her bare proximal fibula. He definitely will.

 

Few minutes later, Molly erected from her slouched curvatures as the telephone set she had as it started singing its mind-numbing repetitive sound. She walked as fast as she could to keep the sound from waking her inner devil.

 

"Hello, Molly Hooper?" She asked as she clipped back the handset to its place, pressing the loudspeaker button to continue her kitchen work.

 

A voice answered, "How do you do Dr. Hooper?"

 

∞Ӂ∞

 

"Yes... I'm good." Henri said as he took Scott's hand, tapping his palm against it once, yet as the second beat pumped— the friction drove between each bodies, Henri gripped hard the other man's knuckles and clutched it, perniciously. "Let's dance, then."

 

"Oh, yes. Take the lead." Scott said as he reciprocated Henri's grip with an equal force of grasping and traction. His face was unfaltering, emotions were unwavering, his stature was stiff and his eyes was slightly shifted, darting at the stifled face of a woman, who was looking cautiously and affrightedly at the two loony men.

 

"Aside from the thickness of dust encircling around this place, what can you say about the air conditioner sprayed, Scott? Shall I consider it as a typical spray as a typical cleaning material, or perhaps a material used to conceal yet to convey something?" Henri started tilting his head sideways looking over both his kid and the victim's wife.

 

"Yes. Thank you for your donations, Guildford." Scott shifted his frontal posture towards the side, directly crossing Henri's smaller facial features, half smiling as the corners of his lips found its way upward that is plastered medially upon his overrated buccal zygomas and mental mandible.

  
"A pleasure." Henri slightly bowed his head at Scott, who was now focused with his senses.

 

∞Ӂ∞

 

"Smelled so good." Molly said as she dropped both of her pot holders from her palms and smelled the emitted aroma from her the typical French cuisine in orangey presentation prepared and placed at the casserole, soon be dined at the table with two personalities, with a common denominator, "right Toby?" The feline just answered his woman with a purr.

 

∞Ӂ∞

 

"Orange."

 

Henri made his face grinning abnormally at the lady who was standing behind his back who has her sweat flowing frantically on her head, draining the dams of fluids caused by her butterflies that jitter around her empty stomach.

 

_Why orange?_

 

"Perhaps to conceal odors, remember that Sherlock, a citric acid, a Chemistry 101... I must ask, where have your baccalaureate degree  in Chemistry gone?" Mycroft said, twisting his umbrella from its handle as he shifted his weight from his other foot.

 

Both the two men were standing in a kitchen where Mycroft was cutting an orange into half with an unusual type of sharp knife... _No it wasn't a knife._

 

"Though it is pointless. Your stupidity got yourself tied down in a...a war, as how might the greater put it in his words." Mycroft said as the pulp from the hesperidium fruit burst out, revealing a reddish orange liquid. Red? "Self-inflicted pain, brother dear. I must say, _this blade is quite sharper than I thought_."

 

The man who was standing with him had flew out of the empty space as his universe had gone back to reality— gone back where Henri and the lady had been standing, looking at his expressionless face and his blank vision.

 

"Henri, any thoughts?" Scott asked looking at the man, clearly looking for second opinions.

 

Henri looked at him smiling devilishly while stroking his own chin with his digits, gently and aristocratically. Scott never needed any lubricants to make each statement understandable with his encephalon, he never needed any enzymes to be a catalyst in his channels, yet this one is generally an exception.

 

_What happened to your intuition?_

 

**I don't know.**

 

"Alright. Let's go back down... We shan't be involved with this. Costing us a minute or two, if I would speak my mind." Henri said as the lady looked at him questioning his language.

 

_"Why?"_

 

"Obviously, nothing is utile in here. Unless, someone else had directed us to _a bait_?" Scott answered the lady with his rhetoric and lowered his head with his retractable magnifier and fake glasses to check for any bearable signs of presence before theirs or at least any inconsistency with the wood prints.

 

As Henri led the wife out of the room, a darker door visibly peeked out its contrasting facade against the sharp brightness of light on the corner, which had interested the man's instinct that what is in the back of the blank plank of wood will uncover at least one of the evidences of this murder.

 

On the other hand, Scott scoot his body up in an erected position, and steadied himself with his two stiff legs, bearing all his body weight. He tried to take a deep breath of the dusty surroundings and closed his eyes, maintaining the equilibrium of his senses in both the natural world and his mind palace.

 

 ** _Weigh it._** His inner voice murmured.

 

_What?_

 

"I wanted to play! Let's hunt treasures!" The young kid said elatedly as he approached his elder brother who had his books with him, neatly organized and placed its weight on his desk opposing his anterior.

 

"Something had happened to your eyesight, I suppose, Sherlock." He looked at the young kid, slamming his left hand above the books and papers, who had his eyes merely blurring with small tears, "That's what younger brothers wanted, attention, and yet you're a no exemption... Treasures? Nothing shall be considered as treasure, except for our minds." He said as he shifted his weight to his feet and kneeled down with the younger Holmes's height, "Sherlock. These are daggers, a sword of edges, an acute shard against the existents. Could either corrupt or create at any state. These are what shall be treasured. No other treasure will be of any importance; however, _playing with treasures might be interesting_."

 

  
The young man could only afford to nod his head against the dead-eyed stare of his brother that could penetrate into his soul.

 

\--

 

"Why do you keep on replaying these memories, Mycroft?" The older Sherlock lifted his head from his blank vision of darkness.

 

"I'm not in control in any of your thoughts, brother dear. It is merely all in your mind, though I must say, what you wanted to do years ago is all in your hands again, yet cuffed you are." Sherlock looked at Mycroft with his brows knitted together forming an invaluable frown from his emotionless face. _You have nothing yet you have your treasure. No hands._

 

"Form a theory... Focus. Control. Compose. Above all, we do have this edge, shall we say, our own treasures. Yet, some do have the other view of it. Find the clues. Find their motives. Find them, thou shalt be rewarded." And things turned in a blackout.

 

 

Examining the victim proved nothing except for a murder, in such a manner of poisoning.

 

 

Includes the same Cassis we had saw back in the office, a full one though the same identity. The cassis was found near the bushes of the entrance, in shards and the alcohol was spilled, yet, I have been able to save few parts of it for chemistry.

 

 

Meeting the wife, and knowing small clues about the man and his lady friend model Sofia. The whole situation suggests an on-going affair between the painter and the model. Therefore, a good motive for a murder is jealousy; the wife is indeed a green-eyed one.

 

 

An interesting turning point for the whole circus. The absence of wedding band on the man's hand, nevertheless, found it hidden, and plastered between his ribs and shirt, hugging his neck.

 

_A turning point, why?_

 

The man's lady friend, mustn't be knowing something about her beau's marriage, before, however, time did consumed itself, probably out of hatred, the mistress had killed the man, leaving no traces of her being in the man's life with her canvassed image, and ultimately, ending his sentence.

 

 _Uh oh... Tut tut tut. Oh dear Sherlock, that is a wrong answer_. Moriarty's smile showed within his Mind Palace, “ _The murderer is a murderer. You know how these things work don't you? Think the same way I do, Sherly.”_

 

Then probably it was the wife, then? Or both had participated?

 

No proofs. Uncertain.

 

 

"Scott, I need you here!"

 

"Oh shhh! Do you know how bloody precious my private time is? I'm in a middle of—"

 

"Oh idiot savant, spare me your rebuking. I found something worthy of your preciousness." Henri shouted at the other side of the room, near the door.

 

Scott blinked and walked towards the space where the voice of the other man had rung.

 

"What the bloody hell was it?" Henri looked at the lady as Scott uttered those words enough for the two figures to acknowledge his presence.

 

"Go and check the room... I've seen a whole lotta there." Henri answered gesturing his hand in a Bonjour stance.

 

 

Scott opened the dark door and surprised by how the little room become a storage for the crime scene to materialize.

 

∞Ӂ∞

 

**'I told you, John. That was a mistake. -Molly'**

 

The lady pressed the send key visible at her screen to clarify the mistake she had taken during the phone call.

 

**'Pardon? A mistake... Oh yes I get that. Sorry that my actions are quite unpredictable, I just want to meet up. -John Scott.'**

 

**'I though Gloria had already informed you that I won't be entertaining such rekindling of old romance, which is more likely with you. Sorry John. -Molly'**

 

**'Please Molly Hooper.'**

The next reply answered.

 

_This is going nowhere._

 

She then heard the silly sound from her feline accompanied by the outrageous grinding sounds from her own gastronomic space, that made her focus blurry yet clear for the meal.

 

_Sherlock. Where are you?_

 

∞Ӂ∞

 

 "Oh bloody hell! Burnt portions of plastics and of course, rubbers... Which may indicate a—" Scott shocked at his own conclusion locked the door and opened the closed windows, allowing some fresh air for his intake and exchange.

 

He inspired a vast amount of air and expired it, then uttered with his deep voice, "A nitril."

 

"What? Isn't that Nitric Acid?" Henri asked looking at Scott with his brows furrowed in a straight angle.

 

"Not the aqua fortis. Any of a class of organic compounds containing the cyano radical, which is the CN." Scott looked at his back, staring daggers at the man who questioned his statement.

 

"So it's cyanide, then?" Henri asked; his left brow now stretched in an upward position, asking for the man's confirmation.

 

"Yes, it is. Oh, you could conclude now, Henri." He said as he looked at the lady. "Perhaps, you may also want to conclude your possible alibis, Madame."

 

"First and foremost, you had actually received the bottle of Crème de Cassis from the shipment or delivery? After taking an odor of the alcohol, I could estimate that it was a three-month old Cassis, shipped three days ago, judging by the tape with the date plastered at some parts of the shards." Scott said as he walked around the room, shifting weights against his plain paces of the leathery sole.

 

"Second, you do realize that there is an ongoing affair between your husband and the model, after witnessing such... _intimacy_ , inside this four-cornered area."

 

Claire was having her pace slower than the usual as she tried to balance the platter full of juices and sandwiches for the audiences, roaming towards the room where splashes of vividly painted chromatic sheets of canvas and wallpapers were suspended against the wall and frames made of mahogany woods. She had her weight shifted along with her feet that are slightly hammering through the floor, with either a grin or a smile of plasticity pasted on her flattened facial profile— well, who would be happy if your husband had just got his new model, this might bring tons of pounds and pennies, let it be. Her thoughts were quite louder enough for the heavens to hear her evil voice. _Tons of pounds and pennies, indeed._

 

Her heart, head and mouth dropped with the single vision of how her husband and the model's lips had simply held each other’s pace against their entwined tongues sharing shadows of lust and desire as their both palms roam over the whole carved skin of crème again the lightings of the daylight.

 

"You do realize that they are having an affair." Scott's voice echoed inside the room as his body encircled 360 degrees from its origin.

 

"Sentiments got over you... Obviously, hatred it is, at the same time, jealousy over the lady. Perhaps you do want to kill them both?"

 

Flashes of broken shards were splayed lying down the brownish floor as she had caught the attention of the lovebirds.

 

"Oh! What happened? Sorry, it slipped out of my grip. How silly of me?" Claire said as she tried to pull down her weight towards her lower body and picked up the shards thru her reach.

 

"Oh sorry, Um-Clay, have you seen anything?" The man asked.

 

"Oh nothing— I haven't seen any rats that did cause those tiny tinted prints... _I don't_ _think that rats are cute enough to let them feel at home_." She murmured her last words against the man's sharp intake of breath.

 

"Oh I see. How can you probably say that I am indeed the murderer? The thought isn't that clear, there ain't no murder weapons, this is pointless. I am certain that it was that model." The woman stood from her sharp edge and shouted her defense as Henri started typing something at his touch.

 

"I suppose, this has something to do with the Crème de Cassis?" Henri asked as he continued typing.

 

"Yes, it is indeed— however, a great question is possibly dwelling in your foolish thoughts, lady; and that is..." Scott said as he looked up from his stance towards the ceiling's patterns of woods and cement.

 

"What does it have to do with the Cassis, I mean, you do think it's poison—I did drink one— there is no possibility that I was infected, you saw it prepared at the kitchen." She protested.

 

"No. No. No. I wasn't referring to that Cassis. And if you were, then you must be dead, ten minutes ago. Also, poison came from that room." Henri shot a glance and directly pointed his slender hands to the door where storage is.

 

"Yes. I must say, Gilford do indeed have a point. The poison originated from that room, not necessarily, the room itself—I doubt that there is a presence of drugs in there... Well, I actually thought you heard drugged him, intoxicatingly, yet something surprised me— plastics and rubbers. Sounds delirious, yet not, for psychopaths, this meant death. Cyanide Poisoning isn't it?" Scott said as he looked down from the contact with the ceiling and made his left brow stretched upwards for a confirmation.

 

"However, I must add that you did also realize that burning all, would cause no good to you and your plans. It could also kill you and burn your home... though I must say, it was never been built... through the depletion of adenosine triphosphate, which indeed could kill cellular activities and the cell itself, which composes the individual, such as us, the organism. And killing yourself is quite out of the tee-shirt, for it is that, basically, your husband's such a loon. You did try to burn some, suggested by the dark carbon marks inside the room, yet _frustrated_." Scott explained then walked towards the vacant canvas stand and held out his right hand to grasp a brush.

 

"Is this a black acrylic paint?" He asked.

 

"Yes, it is." The woman answered.

 

"Really? _Are you hungry,_ Scott?" Henri asked as he looked at the man intently.

 

"I am in no good terms for ingestion, slows down brain activity, blah blah... Good God! Now you have heard of ingestion, shall we go back to the murder?" He asked as he fluttered his face, turning around, walking focused, then stopped as he reached over the lady, and stood with his six-foot height, towering over the lady's. "Over the counter drugs of Cyanides would work properly and did work, yet you failed to do something... To dispose the receipt, far from everyone's reach, it was actually downstairs. How silly of you, woman?" He walked back then uttered, "You can't make him drink meds without any prescription, he requires it... So, you did one thing. Could I doodle?"

 

Doodling is not his past time, so do not expect the man to be one hell of a good one with it... However, shall one let the music tabs and notes go— he's quite fascinated with those, as a matter of fact, he had written down the whole piece of Rossini's La Gazza Ladra, accurately and precisely identical with the original version of the classical tune, without him having any knowledge about the music piece, or Rossini, himself. He planned to doodle some silly face of the plank of wood, nevertheless ended up with a treble clef, a time signature, with sharps for G, C and F, and a full whole tone lying at the space designated for the E.

 

"This means you have to combine both notes in one bow stroke." He lectured as he drew a curve above the first note and the second one. Legato. Tied together.

 

"You have to combine, mix the supplements with the Cassis, that's why you had it powdered." Scott said as he stopped and scooped his slumped back in an upward position, then saying, "you do know that the bottle was infected, for you never tried to drink it, not even a sip."

 

"But, the Cassis, it's in the kitchen. And you saw me drinking."

The inspector led the two men towards the house as Scott saw the woman drinking with the bottle, with no wine glass.

 

"That is not the Cassis. See the bottle, it's not even identical, even the liquid itself, that's a typical tequila. It is only your husband who had drunk the Cassis. Obviously, because of the number of wine glass that you had in the sink— one. If you indeed drank one, then there must be two wine glasses however, the previous scenario made that impossible, it was actually your glass that was broken during the intimacy. This isn't your house, you are quite temporary, so there's no good if you would provide things or belongings more than two, two beds, two spoons and forks, two wine glasses. And since your wine glass was now in shards, and you don't fancy drinking alcoholic beverages aside from tequila, which you do need for inner strength and is pointless, the glass in the sink was unfortunately your husband's." He turned to Guilford, "Were the results done from the lab?"

 

"Yes. DNA samples indeed matched the Mr. Phillips's, positively identified and cyanide traces was also present." Henri answered.

 

"See?"

 

"But...why? The evidence is quite insufficient." The lady answered.

 

"And yet, as per your words, you had simply implied that you are indeed the murderer?" Henri said, then added, "green-eyed monster?"

 

"Then I shall take that as a compliment, mister."

 

"Uh-oh. Giving up already Madame?" Henri asked the lady, "Perhaps you would want to know some accessory details, such as the absence of Lady Sofia's portrait?" Narrowing his gaze to the only woman in the room as he hid his both carpals on his lumbar back.

 

"Oh yes. I almost forgot about that." Scott agreed, "Shall you please take the privilege to do so, Guildford?"

 

"A pleasure, though I must admit it myself that Mister Scott is quite unaware of that fact." Sherlock's grin turned a bit of mess, providing a crease on his forehead. How an unduly remark.

 

"Wanting to draw the execution to the Mistress? How?" Henri asked as he threw his body fat from the two people, caging his pace towards the unused and clean palettes over the splashed cans of paint.

 

"Enlighten me."

 

"When we got in... I noticed the foul smell from this room, sort of a mixture of citrus perfume and VOCs— of course, one would not suspect about that odor because the first sense that would be depleting as a person ages is the olfactory. I must say that the Inspector that you have talked to the last time who was Pierre Fontaine, did not smell any of your fragrance, aside from his age, his lacking of logic due to years of inhumane activities and purely religious studies inside the bars of jail, as well as his focus was being barred by his oral odor."

 

"Shall I consider him completely useless?" Scott asked the older man.

 

"No. Not now, really." The man answered him. "As what I'm saying, some droplets of painting here were quite new. Check your soles," he pointed his finger to Sherlock who immediately rotated his leathers slightly pointing towards his direction, "That. Is. Acrylic. Specifically white."

 

"Thank you for stating the obvious, Guildford." Scott quipped with his vowing manner.

 

"As we do all know, it is water-based, and one of those white colored canvas uncovers the face of the illustrious character in this novella," he pointed at the discarded canvas at the edge of the room. "And unfortunately, the canvas which holds the truth was burned, wisely, as it seemed. Isn't it? So how could we have the idea of Sofia?"

 

"Sofia might be imaginary?" Voices of John Watson echoed throughout Sherlock's brain— Oh God! He missed his bloody foolish partner.

 

"No, she isn't an imaginary one. But why would you have to burn her?" Scott asked the woman's dumbfounded facial expression.

 

"Look, Mister, you have gotten it all wrong. Please do ask for the complete result of the Chemical composition from your evidence. It was never just Cyanide." She answered and stared blankly with her fingers trembling under her chin, then Henri began swiping down his phone.

 

 

Come on Sherlock! Make your hard drive work!

 

_DELETE. DELETE. UNDO._

 

No! Wait... Come on.

 

 

Come on.

 

What are the probabilities, brother dear?

 

His mind palace began formulating the house's floor plan.

 

 

 

  *          **_Where was he killed?_**



o    **His body was found in his room, therefore, he was killed there.**

_Though, there are possibilities that would suggest that he may not be killed in his room, rather outside his room._

 

  *          **_If he was and wasn't killed there:_**



v  **Bathroom?**

Nope, as what is said there are no chances of him being there, no signs of Dihydrogen oxide anywhere near his body or even his clothes.

o    **_What if his clothes got changed?_**

No... Not really. Could she do that?

 

v  **Living Area**

No. We've been there. I have checked it, no signs of his presence, as if he hadn't been there throughout his life.

o    **_What if the killer had purposely hid the victim's traces?_**

What for? And if she did it, then any fountain pens or at least a sign would be left there. Men loves giving marks, a mark that says "We've been here".

 

v  **Dining Area**

There is a possibility. Since there are no bottles seen inside the victim's room.

 

v  **Josh's Room**

No signs of bottles. And if there was, since the bottle had been destroyed, there could be at least a marking of the bottle's butt.

o    **_What if the killer had already cleaned it up?_**

Then there must be still a marking of dampness in anywhere which the wine had been placed.

 

✔ Dining Area.

**Second Level**

v  The only place we've been is the **Studio**.

However, we could extract that there are actually three to four rooms upstairs, including the studio and the storage room. And assumingly, one of those left is the Lady's room. (The outside frame would fit the typical size for a master's bedroom, and not a water closet.)

 

The room right next to the staircase is indeed the Woman's room, for it was a neatly decorated peach door, as well for the fact that it is quite unlikely for bathrooms to use wooden ones, fearing that it might induce termite-pestering over their wooden 'home'.

 

Well, we are quite lacking of a solid proof. I need fingerprints, footprints or any prints that would point her as the one who committed this gruesome murder.

 

"Guillory, ask one of the gendarmes downstairs if they have seen any finger prints near the body using the UV Light." Then Sherlock began typing on his phone.

 

Guillory heard his words and flew out with the wind, off to do some work with the French police officers.

 

"And you, Madame Antoinette?" He spoke as the lady held her eyes wide-eyed against the figure in front of her, "I would like to hear your confessions."

 

"I have nothing to confess... Aside from the fact that—"

 

"You killed your Mother, who killed your father." Sherlock looked at the woman's facade and studied her, while letting his hand click.

 

"How did you know?"

 

"Remember the man, the French Police Detective? He said that I should tell you that I have solved your family puzzle." Scott smiled slightly, then opened his mouth as if to speak out words ruthlessly, however, immediately deleted the thought of it and uttered, "You killed your mother inside her room, I presumed that her body was still in there... And Guillory's checking it. You are taking the quarters with your mother, you heard or read her plans."

 

"I have read her notes."

 

 

"I saw everything. The murder that had taken its place inside the dining area... I helped mother in carrying father, then when my mother turned back to her room, leaving me, after saying that I should hid his body inside his cabinet. She said that I will get paid but must forever hold my peace and disappear like the ashes... I knew her plans of killing me after that, and so I took my chance, I killed her, however, I was wrong, she called the police and said that it was I who killed my father. Where's the justice?" She began crying, shedding her tears as she added, "I saw everything... every little thing that father had done, including his affair with that woman. The cassis had—" The lady stuttered the words as the door busted open, with Henri's figure stood and his phone far from his fingers.

 

"Carbon."

 

"Yes. Carbon. The cassis must have actually contain pure carbon molecules, as well as the alcohol, the unknown man, that only Mother knew brought it here, I think he was the delivery man. He looked like he hadn't shaved for years, brown-haired... A _German_? As what I remembered. Only mother... Only she could name the man, I know. And they planned it. I know for once that my parents both had an affair... I hate them both." She said as she kicked the easels standing within the studio, a domino effect; which earned a grunt from Henri and a stiff from Scott.

 

"But hating both doesn't mean that you have to disguise as your mother; also, to kill her." Henri uttered with his head lying low.

 

"I did it because... She hated me...she hated me that I was from a sin of my father with other fornicatress he had slept with. She never loved me."

 

"A word with you, _Antoinette_?" Scott asked her.

 

"Yes?"

 

"You are a Chemist." Scott smiled.

 

"Bright deduction sleuth Chemist." She answered with a big smile and offered her both hands in front of Guillory to cuff. “And you, perhaps you have read the testamur in my father’s room?” Henri nodded and smile, “Oui, Antoinette.”

 

∞Ϫ∞

 

**_Dear Diary,_ **

_She never really loved me. Not at all. It was never true that she would always hug me in front of our family guests, saying that I was her daughter. Who is she fooling? Herself._

**_Antoinette_ **

 

∞Ϫ∞

 

**_Dear Diary,_ **

_It was never been true that she had let me stay inside the room with her, for a good fact, she had made me sleep inside the stables, or worse let me be molested by the disgraces of this land — by the peasants, by the drunkards. She wanted me to sleep with them, treating me like the same slut my biological mother had been. It was my father who had really cared, but when we land here in France and started an affair with that Russian beautiful lady, he had started neglecting me— and my mother was never happy. I could see her jealousness. I felt unloved, unlived, and disgustingly raped by the crisis I've been holding. This is not the life I had prayed for. I was indeed miserable because of them. I hate them. BOTH._

**_Antoinette_ **

 

∞Ϫ∞

 

**_Dear Diary,_ **

_I have heard my mother with another man inside her room...Another affair, I suppose? I thought they were just kidding, for they were laughing eagerly. They were talking about some plans of killing someone with a wine. I know that there are possibilities of food poisoning that could cause septic shock to human body, as well as different structure of alcohols, but wine? Ethanol being placed by isopropyl? Really?! Then one night, as I was about to go and get my clothes changed, I saw a paper, a piece of it, mapped is the plan, the one I thought was a faux. She will be killing my father. I need to make a move too, get them both out._

∞Ϫ∞

 

"What's that Scott?" Henri asked as they searched the stables for further evidences, aside from the different underpants of people who had occupied the stables, including a worn out corset and knickers that are believed to be Antoinette's belongings.

 

"Diary entries. Enough to support her confessions." Sherlock answered, handing him the papers. "The only problems are Sofia, her identity; as well as, Augustus Knight."

 

"Augustus Knight?"

 

"Yep." Scott said, emphasizing on the p, as he held his both hands around his back, "the delivery man."

 

“Oh, then you do know the answer now?” **_Why are we here?_**

 

“Hmm.” Scott said as he looked up to the horizon.

 

“I have arranged the laboratory for you, in Ivry-sur-Seine— 74 kilometers away from here. It’s the only available.”

 

“So?” Sherlock’s looked down to Henri, with his expression immovable.

 

"Then there are no problems at all." Henri murmured as he walked back the country house, leaving Sherlock in his own miserable thoughts.

 

 

There was... Molly Hooper.

∞Ӂ∞

 

“Mother, what happened to Papa?” The lady asked the woman who was bound to go upstairs.

“Can’t you see? He’s sleeping, for eternity.” Looking back down, she answered, “Make sure you’ll dispose his body far from there, get him to his bedroom, I’ll be upstairs, meet me there—I’d give you reward for helping me,” then disappeared from the steps.

Antoinette pulled her father’s feet off the ground, dragged his built from the Dining Area towards the open door of the room. “Papa, I’ll give you revenge, but let me admit this first, you are a drag— you deserved this, you both.” She packed some of her father’s articles of clothing and packed it inside his baggage. “Once you would run away with your lady friend… I have prepared her you as a present.”

When her planned actions were done, the younger Phillips had made her way towards the grown woman’s room. Hearing her mutter some words, she had placed her left auricle against the slightly opened door, peeking and eavesdropping at the same time. “Augustus Herrmann? This is me, Claire… Everything’s fine, we’re done. I’ll just call the police and let them take that brat, and then we can go now.”

 

The woman’s conversation had made her brain not working properly, what Antoinette did the next is to quietly drop her feet down the stairs to the kitchen to grab the butcher’s knife, hid it on her back and stomped her feet up to the room; purposely, to let the woman be aware of her presence. Once she opened the door, revealing the smile formed between the woman’s mental, she walked slowly, a lady-like bachelorette dancing against the thorns of roses—then dragged her hand in a grip that stabbed and killed the old lady, leaving her words.

 

“The end of the mistress of the sea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for such hiatus. This should be posted 3-4 months ago...and it's been a long time and a long story, so let's cut it short with a BLOCK, so this isn't the greatest chapter. Please bear with me... Next chapter's in progress, with Molly's help, of course.
> 
> Now, if anyone would like to raise or to ask (a) question/s regarding this chapter, the previous and the next ones, or even the whole work itself, you are free to do so... I'd be happy to answer all, and so as with suggestions, and others. Everything's welcome!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction.
> 
> Leave me something, let me know what you are thinking-- they are very much appreciated.
> 
> Things you have read were not what you think, as they are, supposedly.  
> Those might not looked as what they seemed...
> 
> And questions are also appreciated... I will try my hardest to apprehend and to answer each, just take a minute to drop by the comment section. Feel free!


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